


Love thy enemy

by aellos



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 20:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2401094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aellos/pseuds/aellos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francesca punches like a dream. It wasn’t quite the first thing Bailey noticed about her, but it certainly left the strongest impression: split lip, black eye, three stitches and a scar that takes Bailey weeks to stop chewing on when she’s nervous. Watching Francesca take someone down is a thing of beauty, but being on the other side of it is really something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Original fic, but posted in the tag in the hope that any interested parties will be able to find it easier! Sorry for the inconvenience. 
> 
> Thanks: my unnamed but well-loved boos 
> 
> General warnings: sports violence, consensual kinky shit happens without specific negotiations 
> 
> Spoiler-ier warnings: breathplay / hair-pulling / spanking / drunk sex

Francesca punches like a dream. It wasn’t quite thing the first thing Bailey noticed about her, but it certainly left the strongest impression: split lip, black eye, three stitches and a scar that takes Bailey weeks to stop chewing on when she’s nervous. Watching Francesca take someone down is a thing of beauty, but being on the other side of it is really something else.

***

The Harpies rink is probably Bailey’s least favorite. Their visitor’s room is tiny and smells like mould and there’s barely any heating, just concrete walls and peeling paint. The ice is okay, but their boards have all these little sweet spots, like any rink does, and they still get caught unawares sometimes. The crowd, however, is almost second to home crowds, if anything could ever come close. Harpies fans hate the Amazons, and always have, and there’s nothing like skating out to thousands of boos in surround sound to get the blood pumping. It makes her feel evil. It’s _awesome._

The game starts auspiciously: Bailey leans forward for puck drop, the opposing centre says “Good luck, you devilspawn bitch-tit motherfucker,” and Bailey wins the face-off.

The thing is - Bailey’s _starting line_. Mostly because Greta’s got a raging flu and Doughy still can’t take a face-off to save her life, but Bailey isn’t gonna fuck this one up because some asshole thinks she’ll bite at pissweak name calling. On her first break Coach nods at her, and Bailey keeps sucking in air and think-think-thinking, because their forechecking is aggressive but they’re sloppy about it.

Then she’s back out there: a quick drive, picks up the puck on the way into the zone, intercepted on the pass, backpedaling like crazy, picks up a shoddy saucer pass from defense and she’s off again. There’s that special burn in her lungs, the one you only get when you’re gulping down ice rink air, metallic and tangy and cold, snapping against her face and throat. Their centre sees Jacks coming, sending her careening with no pass options, and then Jacks is stuck in the corner, the Harpies’ defense grinding her into the boards.

Bailey hears Jacks’ “fuck off!” as she picks the puck from between the kicking feet and whacks it in Thereux’s direction - she doesn’t follow though, because Jacks barely ever gets chippy, and if there’s a problem, this is Bailey’s job. Jacks is 5 foot nothing and the Harpies defense is up in the six foot zone, elbows all into Jacks before Bailey shoves her off.

“C’mon, move it on,” Bailey mutters as she pushes her away, but she doesn’t move off, just shoves back a little and stares Bailey down. The crowd picks up when they notice Bailey and the defensewoman squaring up, the only conspicuous stillness on the ice as they eye each other, but Jacks shakes her head and breaks the moment and they’re off for a line change. There’s no more squaring off for the rest of the first period. Amelie Wong, Captain and point leader for the Amazons, scores a goal in the dying minutes, and then the Amazons’ visiting crowd does their best to drown out the boos. Bailey thumps against the boards with the rest of them, heart still racing, and returns Amelie’s sharp grin.

“Goin’ good, ladies,” Amelie hollers as soon as they’re in the change room. “Tighten up a bit, keep the anger, we’ll be good. Remember we’ve got team dinner after!”

There’s a quick bit of cheering in between gulping down water before Coach steps up, stern as always. She runs through tactics and plays for next period, and ends with her eyes on Bailey - “Play smart and fast. They’re too good for stupid penalties. But you do what you have to do, ladies.”

The crowd welcomes them loudly, pounding on the plexiglass, and Jacks is muttering whatever pop song is her favorite this week under her breath next to Bailey on the bench, and Smithy starts second period with a break-away that has the whole bench up and shouting. She’s taken down swearing with a nasty hook around her ankle and then the powerplay unit is out. Coach taps Bailey on the shoulder and nods.

Bailey holds her breath for a moment, just concentrates on the yelling and wooping behind her, feeling that sick tight feeling in her chest. She doesn’t look forward to fights, exactly, and it helps to acknowledge the fear: she has a moment of silence with herself, pre-emptively apologises to herself for what she’s about to put it through, catalogues all the way her body is racing forward to the moment: chest heaving, her mouth watering with the lingering taste of puke she always gets, the tingly, heavy awareness of all the muscles in her arms. _Then_ she grabs onto the adrenalin high that’s chomping at the bit. Even Jacks scoring during the PP doesn’t budge her much; she sends her a tight nod that Jacks returns, knowing, and then flicks her eyes back to the penalty box. Francesca is staring right back, smirking.

As soon as the powerplay is over Bailey’s over the bench to welcome Francesca back. Francesca waits for her bareheaded and with her fists up as Bailey sheds gear on her way, grabbing Francesca by the shoulder and spinning them as she tries to get a jab in - Bailey has the reach advantage, but Francesca is faster, yanking Bailey by her jersey until she’s forced to adjust her grip. Francesca gets a quick series of snaps in, sick thud sounds that Bailey feels through her skull and down through her neck, and then she finally gets her grip good and punches Francesca while disentangling her arms, leaving Francesca wobbling without the leverage. It doesn’t take much for Bailey to shove her to the ground, but Francesca makes sure to take Bailey with her.

“Nice jab,” Francesca says, muffled and spitty around her mouthguard. Usually she’s pretty mouthy, but it’s their first words all game. They’re both breathing hard, faces stinging. Bailey tries not to stare at the red mark blooming over Francesca’s cheek.

“Watch your fucking stick near my teammates,” Bailey says shortly. Francesca rolls her eyes, and Bailey shoves at her with the fist that’s clutching her jersey, that anger deep in her stomach still leaping up her throat.

Then the refs are on them, hauling Bailey up and escorting them back into the penalty boxes. Francesca waves at the crowd as it applauds their performance, but Bailey keeps her head down. There’s been some hype about them this season, their fights and their budding rivalry, but it gives Bailey a sick little feeling whenever she has to deal with it. Her life would be a whole lot simpler and less painful if Francesca just fucked off, frankly.

***

  
There’s no love lost between Montreal Harpies and Boston Amazons. Most teams, there aren’t many problems. Things get a little chippy sometimes, everyone knows that, but there’s this strange, explosive chemistry whenever Amazons n’ Harpies hit the ice. Noone can really remember the first event, but surely there was something, way back. All Bailey knows is, last year when the Harpies were eliminated, the Harpies captain refused to shake hands with Jessica Wright, the retiring Amazons captain. Apparently it was over the bullshit penalty calls, but that’s on the refs, not on Jessica, and it was Jessica’s last season. The first Amazons n’ Harpies Battle this season had ended - for Bailey at least - when their new rookie, Francesca Troudeau, had given her a brilliant uppercut and sent her sprawling. And so began this year’s installment of the Amazons vs Harpies feud.

The Amazons are all huddled in the freezing pathetic parking lot, just a big asphalt area with a bunch of dingy cars. Mostly they’re their own dingy cars, so they’re allowed to say that. The weather’s practically balmy for Montreal, hovering around 40 fahrenheit, and Jacks has her hands tucked into Bailey’s pockets because she always forgets her gloves.

“How long can Tully take?” Jacks whines, muffled into Bailey’s collar. Tully had blocked three shots tonight, so Bailey’s feeling pretty forgiving of her inability to get dressed in under half an hour, but still. It’s _cold._

Tully finally comes running out the front door, scarf trailing behind her. “Sorry! Sorry! Let’s go!” Everyone’s already unlocking cars and scrambling in. Carpooling is a tight enough fit with all their gear, but their heavy duty winter clothing makes it real challenge.

“Oi! You forgot this!” It’s one of the Harpies, shouting from over their side of the parking lot. They’d figured out pretty early on that parking nice and far apart kept things simple.

She jogs over, carefully avoiding the ice patches, and shakes something in Bailey’s direction. She’s got to fumble out of Jacks’ grip, all awkward, and she mutters _thanks_ , without really looking at her. Things were cordial off the ice, sort of, and Bailey wasn’t going to start anything when they’re already running late for dinner.

“C’mon, we’re gonna lose!” Jacks says, tugging on her coat - Amazons tradition said that last car to dinner had to buy dessert - so Bailey just returns the quick smile that the Harpy shoots her before they’re both leaving.

“What is it?” Wong says from the front seat, trying to find a decent radio station. Bailey’s kind of busy trying to unstrangle herself from her scarf.

“Mmf- Ah- looks like a card-”

Her twenty-third birthday had been last week, but she doesn’t know how she would have lost anything in the Harpies changeroom, and the card isn’t familiar, so-

“Oh no,” Bailey groans.

Tully is already pulling on it to see. “What is it! What is- ooooooooh-”

It’s an innocuous enough looking card, just some flowers and pink ribbons and stuff, but inside is I HOPE YOUR BIRTHDAY SUCKED. YOU BITCH, signed with FRANCESCA TROUDEAU (YOU ARE PERMITTED TO SELL THIS SIGNATURE ON EBAY IF IT MEANS YOU WILL HAVE ENOUGH CASH FOR A NOT SHIT HAIRCUT)

“She’s such a fuckin’ -” Bailey’s cut off by Amelie’s significant throat clearing in the front seat. “She just won’t leave me _alone_.” Bailey knows she’s whining but god. No matter how many times Bailey puts her in her place, Francesca’s always there again, splitting blood and grinning toothily.

Amelie hums. “Aw, c’mon. She’s a rookie. You know what they’re like. You weren’t so different, back then, all enthusiastic eager to please.” Amelie looks at her in the rearview mirror, her eyes smiling so Bailey know’s she’s mostly just ribbing her.

“Yeah, but-”

Jacks pulls on Bailey’s hair and whispers “C’mon, Burkey.”

Bailey sinks lower in her seat and ignores the funny feeling in her stomach, that weird, untethered feeling that always seems to kick up around Troudeau, like she’s just reached the peak of a rollercoaster and is about to drop. She doesn’t crumple up the card, though, because who knows, maybe she can photoshop something cool with her signature.

***

  
The thing is, Francesca had been nice after their first fight. She’d helped Bailey up, held her face and looked in her eyes as the refs tried to wheel her away.

“You good?” She’d murmured, and Bailey had been dazzled, sickly sweet pain achey through the haze. She’d nodded gently, following Francesca’s soft brown eyes, watching them track over her face. Bailey’s guard was down in the worst sort of way, and she’d murmured “yeah, i’m good,” and returned Francesca’s little half-smile before she was carted off to sit in Quiet Time Room.

The next day there had been a whole bunch of quotes pinging around twitter from Francesca’s post game interview about proving herself and being the best and what-the-fuck-ever, Bailey had stopped reading right after _You know, I respect Burke, she’s proven herself again and again. But we saw last night what happens when she’s faced with serious competition. I’ve got a lot to prove in my rookie year. We’ll see if she steps up._

“What the fuck? what the fuck-” Bailey had called Jacks, and they’d bitched her out, but Bailey had never really been able to shake that fuzzy, staticy unsettled feeling whenever she thought of Francesca, chasing after her from the get go.

***  
Bailey gets the usual media hooh-hah after the game - they’d won after all, and the local rag has been covering them a lot, especially after their deep post-season last year. She’s woken by her phone ringing, buzzing loudly on her bedside table.

“Mmmmmmyello?” she answers, rubbing at her face frantically to get some life into her.

“‘Sup,” Ben says, and Bailey lets out a breath of relief. Their dep had a couple of writers that weren’t as nice as Ben, but he’d written for college papers when she was still playing NCAA, and she’d helped him out once when he got spectacularly trashed at a presser. Something about keeping puke off a rented suit made people feel like they owe you something.

“So another tussle with Troudeau, eh?”

“Eh,” Bailey grunts back, mocking, because he’d never really lost that Saskatoon honk. He drops the issue though; he’s learnt to warm her up before talking the gritty stuff.

“What’s the 411 on your pp improvement?”

“It’s great?”

“Well, yeah, but-”

Bailey resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Amelie’s a great leader. Most people don’t get to see just how much of a difference she makes behind the scenes, but her and Jacks- I mean her, Jaqueline and Tallulah have been working closely with Coach to get us where we need to be.”

Ben murmurs something non-committal. It’s blatant bait, but Bailey’s always been a biter.

“And it helps that Harpies penalty kill hasn’t been effective for three seasons or so, of course-”

Ben makes a BADUM TISS noise followed by laughter. Bailey coughs and gets her mug out while she waits for him to get a hold of himself.

“In all seriousness, Bailey - c’mon, your fight with Troudeau. This is the second game where you’ve clashed, is there more heat to the rivalry than just the ice?”

Bailey snorts at his put on reporter voice while she rummages in her cupboard for the new instant coffee - she definitely bought some last month, but she’s obviously put it somewhere safe from pilfering visitors - and hums. “Are you asking about her comments in the press? To you, if I recall,” Bailey adds, just to buy herself time. The thing is - her fights with Francesca are complicated. And you can’t just say that. Bailey has a fundamental inability to lie, which is usually okay, but makes dealing with Ben difficult sometimes.

“I never wanted to be an enforcer, you know, like, that’s it. I’m on the Amazons to play hockey, but sometimes that does involve a certain amount of -” Bailey sniffs the milk and coughs. Okay, black coffee it is. “A certain amount of - taking care of your team-mates. I can’t help it if Francesca really likes to- has a habit of putting my teammates in danger. I’m just doing what I’ve got to do.”

Ben seems to take it on face value, transitioning to questioning her about fighting in the NWHL in general, and Bailey lets herself check out a little and enjoy her coffee and pre-breakfast toast snack at her rickety kitchen table.

The thing is…. Bailey really wishes she could ignore Francesca. Bailey wants to be her own player, not constantly having to deal with this whatever, this link. She’s worked hard to get to where she is; she’d missed out on being drafted her first year, too much controversy about the shifting transitional minor league systems, and she’d slogged through the college circuit for two years before the Amazons had given her a try-out. The NWHL was fresh-faced and coltish, still scrambling to pull itself together, and a player like Bailey mostly on the ice for her bite wasn’t exactly popular for a fledgling league image.

Francesca had gotten drafted right out, though, and early rounds too. She’d been able to play in women’s minors, which made the whole deal a lot easier, but it still rankled at Bailey. Just because her coaches treated her like an enforcer didn’t mean that’s all she was. Amazons had given her a chance, thankfully, especially since her and Wright had played for a bit together in their teens. Their systems work well for Bailey. She was never going to be a star point-scorer, and she had made her peace with that long ago, but Coach Mayweather knew how to use her speed and strength without needing her to always be dropping gloves. In her first season with the Amazons she’d made a name for herself - they all had - for their hardhitting, physical style. NWHL was adapting on a week to week basis, and Bailey wasn’t too modest to admit the role she’d played in changing things. Bailey hadn’t gotten drafted, but Francesca Troudeau and her hard hits and her high penalty minutes and her grinder style had, first round too, and she knew that was partly due to the successes the Amazons had managed. People liked to watch fights, sure, but Bailey was out there with second line minutes and they were _winning_ , and that makes all the difference.

So. You know. Yeah, it gets her pissed off to have some snotty little upstart talking about _stepping up_ when Bailey’s done the work of digging these tracks and Francesca’s gliding behind with her soft hands and soft eyes and soft voice and hard as hell hits, tapping Bailey on the shoulder, poking at her skates, trying to get her off course.

“Oh, by the way,” Ben says, after they’ve wrapped up shop talk and are on to dissing Bruins chances this season, “I didn’t want to bring it up, but you’re probably gonna get hassled, so-”

Bailey puts down the load of dirty washing she’s gathering up and raises her eyebrows. Ben isn’t really one to pull his punches, so she’s kind of on her guard as he continues -

“After the game Troudeau was quoted saying that she was disappointed in your performance,” Ben says, a little drily, like hes twisting his mouth sideways.

“Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she,” Bailey replies, trying to keep it light, but her stomach is already turning with that hard, acidic feeling. _Nice jab_ , but disappointed. It’s not even like Bailey cares what some rookie looking for attention thinks; it’s that two-facedness, that unpredictability. She can never get a read on Francesca, always feels like she’s on the wrong foot, left behind looking stupid, churning with anger she can’t take out on anyone. She bites her tongue, careful, and asks “Is this on record?”

Ben coughs. “It can be, if you want it to be.”

Maybe a couple of years ago - hell, maybe at the beginning of the season, even, when Bailey was still solid and comfortable and Francesca was untested, an excitement for the league, a possibility….. maybe then Bailey would have leapt at the opportunity to dish it right back, get that buzzed and shaky adrenalin feeling that always hums along with the tension between them. Ben is right though. There really is more to the rivalry than just dirty plays and defending team-mates; there’s this sick twisted feeling that never fails to crawl under Bailey’s skin, that strange nervousness Francesca is so good at drawing out of her. Francesca makes Bailey feel _mean_. Ben, the papers, whoever - they don’t need that.

“Nah, I’m fine,” Bailey says, lighter than she feels, thinking of Francesca’s face bright and close and scuffed by her own hands. She hangs up and goes back to getting her washing done.

Francesca is pretty much the only player who can get under Bailey’s skin, and Bailey really, really, really wishes she knew how escape it.

***

Amazons go on a rout then, a fantastic combination of luck, hard slog and their road strength. They lose their first game back at home in OT, but it just fuels the fire, everyone wringing the thrill for all they can before they break for holiday. They destroy the Los Angeles Fiends at home, Thereux with a pretty hat-trick, both Tully and Bailey with gordie howes for their assists on each others goals, and the final horn goes on 6-2, Jacks yelling incomprehensibly in Bailey's face.

They go out for drinks, all of them still amped as hell, and Bailey cheers Thereux - always Thereux, never Bessie - as she chugs her hat trick beer easily and holds her hands up modestly to the applause.

Sass - still so blatantly rookie sometimes, in that kind of precocious and annoying way - hassles Bailey into buying her a drink, and hauls her down next to her when she returns. Cortez is looking far more relaxed next to her, especially with Trini slipping her drinks easily. She barely even looks at Bailey before she’s back to staring at the TV on the opposite wall. Bailey raises her eyebrows at Trini as she puts down the horrible overpriced concoction Sass had asked for, but Trini just winks and ruffles at Cortez’s hair until she whines and wiggles out of her grasp to go back to concentrating on the game replays.

"You ready for Troudeau?” Sass asks, grabbing Bailey’s attention again, sipping her cocktail, kind of grinning at Bailey, like there’s a joke Bailey isn’t in on. The Harpies game isn’t for another two days, but it’s already on everyone’s mind.

Bailey snorts. “I’m never ready for that one,” she says, aiming for joking, but it comes out a little too true. Sass raises her eyebrows and twists a smile.

“You’ll be great,” Sass says, with all that self-assuredness of a first seasoner who’d won her first and only big leagues fight, and Bailey doesn’t have it in her to dissuade her.

***

  
She’s in her face from puck drop. It makes Bailey feel unbalanced, like a trapped animal, and she can feel that nervous anger building, the need to lash out and win herself some space. Francesca keeps it up though, keeps talking to her too, saying stupid shit, all mocking and self-satisfied. Bailey flubs a pass at point at Francesca’s there, laughing _nice one_ , and at the face-off she’s looking at her consideringly, saying, “You’re looking good today, Burkey.” She keeps flirting like that, grinds Bailey into the boards muttering "Oh sweetheart, you always this lively?” and there’s hot humiliation crawling through Bailey at the mental images, because it’s _hot_ , gets her hot.

Bailey has no comeback, is the thing. She could deal with the fighting, the trash-talking, but Francesca sweet-talking her like this - she can’t dish it back, has no ability to lie and make it a joke. Francesca would be able to tell, probably, that when Bailey says _I'll make you fucking beg for it_ she actually means it.

“Hey- Bailey, baby, Burkey, c’mon, Burkey,” Francesca whispers, Quebecois accent slurring in her ear while they’re battling in the corner. Bailey honestly doesn’t know how she has the energy to be starting shit when there’s a puck under their feet, but whatever.

Bailey swallows around the taste of vomit in her mouth and then elbows the fuck out of her and hates everything about it, because the sick truth of it is Bailey wants to look at her. Francesca’s hot, and funny, so sharp-witted, and has the sort of expressive face that you find yourself watching without realising. But it’s - Francesca’s just playing with her, trying to get her off her game. That’s all it fucking is.

The Refs don't do anything about it, either, and Bailey could probably chuck up a stink after, but the thing is- she- Francesca- Bailey- she likes it, maybe. It's flattering, even, has her flushing. Maybe she's an idiot for liking the attention, liking that sharp burn she sees Francesca's eyes when they look at her. She knows in her head Francesca's probably just fucking with her, but she feels it her gut anyway. It's not as if Bailey's famous for her intelligence.

They manage the win. Afterwards Bailey does her best to ignore the media, gives some bland statements about ignoring people trying their best to get you off your game. Francesca has no such compunctions: Ben emails a preview of the quotes she’d given him before he publishes it.

“What the hell,” she says once he picks up. “It’s like she knows you’re gonna pass it on to me, stop humouring her.”

“But she’s so _good_ at this,” Ben says wistfully, like he’s mourning the loss of another fast-talker with a twisted mouth, someone who knows how to work the room. It’s true, too; even though Harpies had lost, they’re front page material on most of the blogs. Bailey closes it down and ignores the itch to read, to get angry about it. Not worth the time.

Amazons manage to stay hot over the Christmas break. They’ve only got two days off and the weather is hellish as per usual, so Bailey just skypes Mom and her brother on Christmas day. Christmas isn’t much for them anymore, which sounds kind of sad, but they’ve all had so many years of Bailey in and out of town or injured or tired in her Hockey Headspace that they’re used to it. They’ve been doing Christmas in August for the last couple of years, getting Mom out of Denver to enjoy real summer and spend time with Mark and Bailey. Mark’s wife is pregnant, though, so next year Bailey might make the effort to get down San Fran in December if there’s a tyke involved.

Bailey dutifully shows off her apartment to everyone, including the new couch and dining table that Mom had spent a month picking out and matching for her.

“You could come and visit, you know,” Bailey says, for like the millionth time, but mom just sniffs.

“I’ve got the winter ball to organise at the retirement home, Bailey,” she says, as if Bailey doesn’t know her schedule back to front, hadn’t got her somewhat incoherent texts about it when she got the committee position. “I may not be stuck there, yet, but I have to establish myself.”

Bailey sees Mark roll his eyes. Mom has barely retired and she’s already volunteering at the local home, talking about moving in there. Mark and Bailey are pretty certain she’s going to move out to San Fran eventually instead, especially with grandkids on the way, but she likes to keep herself busy and likes even more to keep Bailey and Mark on their toes.

Julia turns up and waves at everyone, looking like she’s got an alien living inside her, which Bailey keeps to herself. They’re off to have the day with Julia’s parents, so then it’s just Mom and Bailey.

“Now Bailey-”

She knows that tone, urgh. “If you’re gonna-”

“I ran into Isabelle the other day,” She says, cutting in, and Bailey covers her face. “Why doesn’t she come out and visit you?”

“It’s been _years_ , mom,” and years of half-arguments with mom about it too, really. Isabelle and Bailey hadn’t been messy, as such. They’d still been friends after the break-up, but they were also different people now and hadn’t talked in forever, for good reason. Mom was so weird about her pet projects sometimes, god.

For some horrible reason Bailey thinks of Francesca, how last time they’d played she’d smirked “impressed, Angelface?" when she’d skated past after she scored. Thinks about Francesca’s hot breath against the side of her neck after their fight when they’d landed on the ice, face swollen and sore, taste of blood sharp against the smell of ice.

“Anyway, I should get going to lunch,” Bailey says loudly, shaking out the mental images. Sometimes there was no way to deal with mom except to just talk over her. She rolls her eyes like she knows what Bailey’s doing, but lets her hang-up anyway.

Jacks and her parents host the Amazons Christmas for anyone who’s in town without family and this year there’s a good crop, Zoe and Mala arriving with two cakes and a giant container of Mala’s now infamous home-made kulfi, Cortez and Sass arriving late and mostly useless, and of course Agnes, the lone Finn looking a little lost without Tully.

It’s cozy, familial - just. It’s nice. After lunch they all sack out on the couches and watch old movies with wine, Sass screwing up her face at the taste and Cortez talking about all of Trini’s favorite wines, California’s superior production, until eventually Sass figures out she’s taking the piss and gently attacks her. Agnes laughs at the grinch until she falls off the couch and gets her photo uploaded to facebook as the official event picture.

***

They come back from break with a series of home games, thank god. They drop the first game, too relaxed, too chilled out after Christmas, but the second is a bloodbath against Colorado, Bailey’s hometown team and everything. Bailey’s punching on with their defensewoman barely into the second period, McCoy gone with the PT after a nasty hit from behind, and Bailey gets her with a brutal uppercut, anger clawing at her throat, hauls her jersey over head, spins them until she crashes down in front of Bailey and Bailey gives her one last thump before skating off, trying to keep her hair away from the blood coming from her nose. The home crowd applauds and hollers, and Bailey can hear her name, but mostly she’s dizzy from the blood and adrenalin.

Lisa isn’t even in the back, probably getting checked out in the Quiet Room, so Bailey puts the worry out of her mind and focuses on staunching the bleeding while Tim throws a million paper towels at her. She makes it back before the end of the period and the yells of the crowd hit like a wall of noise, has her blinking away stars, the smell of blood still sharp and disorienting. They’re down 3-0 until Jacks gets an ugly goal bottom of the second, two screens so, so lucky not to get called for goalie interference.

The third isn’t much better, still grimy and ugly, but Doughy’s signature slapshot gets them one goal away from tied, anyone’s game. They pull Hoobs with 2 minutes to go, feeling frantic, Coach a calm wall behind them, a barrier from the screams, but it’s not enough, the buzzer goes on 3-2.

On the way to the change rooms someone bangs the divider glass and Bailey makes the mistake of looking up, catching the defensewoman right in the eyes.

“Guess you missed your lezzie friend,” she yells, Bailey half-lipreading, and she’s got a tongue between two fingers, and then Bailey’s trying to clamber over a wall of glass, yelling mixes of YOU WANT TO FUCKING GO and SHUT THE FUCK UP. There’s hands on her back, hauling her back down, but she’s shaking with rage, heaving air, snarling. The defensewoman is already moving, carried out by the procession, and the other players just look at her disgustedly.

“Your team-mate’s a fucking foul homophobic bitch,” Bailey shouts, and one of them shoots her a look between surprise and commiserating, but thats it, Bailey getting ushered out the back.

“Not fucking acceptable,” Coach snaps, and Bailey lands at her locker with a thud. She’s stripping off as soon as she sits, humiliation and rage stinging at her eyes, the loss and Coach’s disappointment heavy.

“I do care what she said, Bailey, but whatever it was, you deal with it on the ice or you tell me and we deal with it _off_ the ice. She would have got the ban, but now you’re looking at a two game suspension, at least.”

Bailey just stalks off to the showers, knows she’ll have to apologise to Coach later but too wrapped in her head, the pounding _fuck you fuck you fuck you_ frustrating and bitter.

Bailey gets the suspension and barely cares, just feels cold and numb, impotent anger frozen solid in her throat. She sits at home and watches as Amazons lose to philly, eats mechanically and stares at her ceiling, slipping into her breathing exercises by rote.

She decides then and there to put an end to - to whatever it is that Francesca’s doing. Clearly she has no sense of self-preservation, but Bailey doesn’t - can’t deal with this shit, can’t hand her opponents such ammo so easily. At first it had been funny, something to laugh about with Jacks, the fact that well, yeah, Bailey is gay. Francesca probably has no idea, probably thinks she’s making some straight girl uncomfortable, but it’s all backwards. Bailey is half-tempted to let her find out some other way, but Bailey wants to watch her. See her reaction, the whiplash, like a physical blow Bailey has landed herself.

***

It’s not like they can _talk_. There isn’t like, some phone directory of rivals, so Bailey has to wait until the next game. It leaves her jittery, has her double-taking when she hears mentions of Francesca, trying to play it casual. It’s stupid - Bailey doesn’t care about Francesca’s opinions about anything, let alone this, is so past caring, but she’s still - nervous. When she gears up it feels like going into a playoffs game, like her season is on the line. Doughy bumps her hip on the way out, a gentle tap and smile, like she can tell that something’s up, and Bailey gives her a tight smile in return. It’s weird getting sympathy from her baby liney, but Bailey’s not too proud to admit she needs it now, even if Doughy doesn’t quite know what’s going on.

Francesca’s top line now, and Bailey has to keep reminding herself not to track her, keeps catching herself ignoring the play to stare at her back, TROUDEAU emblazoned across the back like a target or a warning. She’s fast, so fast, brutal hits when least expected, and it catches Bailey’s breath to see how well she controls the game, precocious rookie confidence evident in the way she moves, directs her linemates on plays, shouting back at her Captain. She’s almost painfully sure of herself; Bailey’s seen enough rookies get rocked by late season upsets and the random twists of the game to be able to imagine how it could turn out.

Their lines don’t match up often, but Amazons get caught out on an icing call and Bailey’s there to take the face-off, staring Francesca down. Francesca doesn’t look away, grins at her lopsided - Bailey’s lucky she’s already bright red, because otherwise she’d probably be blushing. Francesca gives a cursory “Wanna get dinner after?” barely even trying anymore, so Bailey says “You know i’m actually, forreal gay, right?"

The ref laughs and drops the puck, Francesca’s face falling as she says “oh,” and Bailey wins the face-off.

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Bailey says, vindictiveness and _gotcha!_ buzz already slipping as she wheels away, and she’s glad she has no time to watch Francesca’s face from then on, because the frozen, blank reaction had been enough to lodge rocks in her gut.

Bailey thinks maybe that’ll be it, then, the end of that particularly unfunny joke. Maybe Francesca will go back to the usual shittalking or worse, maybe just stay blank-faced for the rest of the season whenever they clash. The idea that Francesca would stop fighting, would stop coming at her head on, wouldn’t want to touch her again - it’s so preposterous it isn’t worth thinking about. For one, there are plenty of other women out like Bailey is, family, friends and teams in the know but nothing official, so its hardly the first time Francesca’s been confronted with it. It also hardly seems like Francesca to let something so insignificant impact her campaign to unnerve and unsettle her opponents. But that edge of flirting that’s been grinding at Bailey, scratching at her like sand in her eye - probably done. Bailey doesn’t really have much time to process it, mind whirring in the background as she slogs it out on the ice. It’s a ruthless game like usual, deadlocked with Hoobs in that zone she’s finding more often than not, defense airtight. Amazons still aren’t on the boards by end of second period, though, stuck at nil all despite Amazons controlling the ice and spending most of their time in Harpies’ zone. It’s beyond frustrating, everyone on edge and terse, Coach the only beacon of calm, telling them to just wait it out, not to force any silly giveaways.

It turns out that the easiest way to get under Francesca Troudeau’s skin is to tell the truth. Bailey isn’t going to shout it from the rooftops, or anything, but for the rest of the game she can feel Troudeau’s eyes on her, appraising and still sort of shell-shocked, like the thought hadn’t actually occurred to her. When Bailey’s on the penalty kill she muscles her off the puck easily, hipchecks her away until Francesca’s awake, suddenly, snarling at her, fighting, and Bailey raises her eyebrows and licks her lips as she dumps the puck, staring Francesca down with the challenge, watching her breathe hard and stare right back at Bailey.

Francesca's off her game for the rest of the period, so noticeable that team-mates clap Bailey on the back during intermission and ask her if she's managed to break Troudeau. Bailey waves them off and rolls her eyes, but yeah, it's kind of a worry. Bailey's too in the zone to really think much, just wants to get Amazons on the board again and keep the shutout going.

Second period the Harpies break through and have the Amazons chasing after them, 1-1 but Harpies dominating, Amazons slipping into the frantic mistakes that Harpies are so good at drawing out of them. Francesca doesn’t have anything to do with it though, looking lost and half-there, and she barely plays the last ten minutes. At the beginning of third period Bailey gets an easy intercept, says _Merci_ , and suddenly something clicks because Francesca doesn’t shut the fuck up then on, all French that has calm and solid Thereux going bright red, Bouchard at the boards yelling at her.

“I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE SAYING TO ME,” Bailey yells back, and then Francesca is coming right at her, her face grill right up against Bailey's, everything bright and loud and sharp, hard grin around whatever filth she's spitting at Bailey. Bailey pushes her back, knocks their helmets, can't help the answering grin as the adrenalin rush hits. Francesca opens her mouth again, this time english-

“I’m-” but Bailey never finds out what she is, because the refs haul her off and dump her in the penalty box. Bailey can barely hear herself think over the noise of the crowd.

After than it seems almost inevitable, Francesca suddenly lit up, everyone else trying to keep up. Bailey’s sitting on the bench and chewing her mouth-guard when Francesca scores, an ugly goal shovelled in at the net from an uncontrolled rebound in the crease, too many bodies to even see it happen from the bench. Amelie’s reaming the ref out, trying to get it overturned, but it stays. Bailey’s so busy watching Amelie that Francesca catches her by surprise, skating back to her own zone right past Amazons bench. Bailey jerks back instinctively, but all Francesca does is wink and blow a kiss right to her.

It has Bailey on her feet in a moment, anger thrumming, wanting to wipe the smug smile off Francesca’s face. Bailey thinks of Francesca earlier, all sweaty and off-kilter and stuttery. Bailey used to feel stupid and pathetic, for being rivals and still finding her hot, still ultimately enjoying the attention, but now suddenly she’s in control. Bailey knows that Francesca is no better, that underneath all the ribbing Francesca can’t deny it, this strange chemistry, and there’s so much power in that Bailey’s ready to leap the boards far before her turn. As it is, when she jumps the boards for her shift there’s that clean burn running through her veins, adrenalin strong and head clear besides the bright chant of _show her show her show her show her._

Hoobs is killing anything coming her way now as if she’s got a vendetta against rebounds in particular. Bailey wins the faceoff and Sass pings it across to Thereux where she’s hovering at the blueline, and suddenly they’re racing up the ice with Harpies caught out awkwardly deep in Amazons zone. Doughy tears up past flat footed defense, passes prettily to where Bailey’s snuck up the side, defense too busy panicking over Thereux and Doughy to man her. Bailey wrists it in, and easy as that Amazons are on the board again and equalised.

Bailey can’t help but look over to the Harpies bench when she celebrates, arms up and Doughy thudding into her, yelling hoarsely and grinning as Francesca stares right back, the same feral cast to her expression that Bailey feels on her own face.

The tension hums right through them the whole intermission, and when they walk out for OT the crowd is so deafening Bailey feels it like a physical force. It feels like her heartbeat could march right out her throat, but once they’re on the ice that strange calm settles over them: sharp smell of cold, rasp of metal on ice, rhythmic slam-tap of puck-board-stick. Bailey watches Amelie’s beautiful saucer pass half-disbelieving at the ease, and Francesca drops in front of the shot, but Greta sinks it, Amazons coming off the bench to crowd around them and celebrate the win.

***

  
It’s hardly a surprise to find Francesca lurking in the parking lot where they're meeting the bus. Jacks raises her eyebrows up near her fringe when she sees her, letting out a low whistle, but Bailey waves her off.

“Yeah?” Bailey says, holding her bag tightly, ready to drop it if Francesca’s about to tackle her, but Francesca just chews her lip, not making eye-contact. Bailey clears her throat, pulls a face, makes it clear she’s keeping her waiting, and Francesca sticks her chin out.

“I wanna talk to you,” she says, and Bailey gestures between them, as if to say, _is this not what we’re doing?_

Francesca curls her lip.

“I wasn’t joking about dinner,” she spits, all aggression that has Bailey wanting to laugh more than anything.

“Francesca-” Bailey sees her face twitch at her name, which is interesting, but Bailey barrels on - “I’m not getting _dinner_ with you.”

Francesca somehow manages to look crestfallen and furious and disdainful all at once, and Bailey would draw it out but she’s got no patience either, so she licks her lips and makes sure Francesca’s watching her as she says, “I’m sure there’s more fun things we can do.”

There’s a frozen moment where Bailey sees something strange cross Francesca’s face, her whole body tense as if ready to fight or flee, but it’s gone in a moment, too fast for Bailey to read.

“Uh, good,” Francesca manages, pulling herself together quickly, always adapting and improving, always striding faster than Bailey can keep up with - “come to mine, my roommate’s at her boyfriend’s tonight.” She says it confidently, in a rush, like if she says it loud enough Bailey’ll believe she isn’t sketchy and nervy. Bailey grin widely at the sight of Francesca Troudeau squirming uncomfortably.

“Well, since you asked so nice,” she says, and Francesca rolls her eyes before stalking off, apparently expecting Bailey to follow. She does.

Bailey sits in the passenger seat perfectly behaved until Francesca starts driving. She opens the glovebox, rummages around until she finds some old gum, chews on that, flicks through every radio station and decides on none, constantly adjusts her seat.

“Quit it,” Francesca says distractedly, and Bailey looks up at her from where she’s reclined.

“Nope,” she says, smacking her gum loudly, and Francesca’s knuckles whiten satisfyingly on the driving wheel.

Francesca keeps up the pace at her apartment block and just walks straight in without checking that Bailey’s following. When she’s unlocking the door Bailey leans against the doorjamb, close enough to have Francesca hunching her shoulders up around her ears and fumbling. Bailey can’t help smirking.

As soon as they’re in the door Francesca’s on her and it feels like revenge for the whole trip, all of today maybe, biting her mouth and clutching her waist. Bailey shoves Francesca backwards to drop her bag, doesn’t give Francesca any time to catch her balance before she’s pushing her up against the wall, leg between her thighs, mouth hot and slick at the juncture of Francesca’s jaw.

“Bedroom down the hall,” Francesca chokes out, clearing her throat, but Bailey ignores her, just grinds against her and kisses her thoroughly, slows down her frantic pace, until Francesca’s slumped low against the wall, gasping when Bailey runs her hand up her back to undo her bra, her other hand high on her thigh.

Francesca finally pushes her off then, keeps pushing until Bailey’s thudding against the wall on the other side. Bailey leans forward to take her shirt off and Francesca looks down as if she’s only just realising that she’s got, like, actual clothes on. Bailey snorts and would keep laughing at how comically fast Francesca manages to lose her shirt, but then Francesca is on her, pushing her hard into the wall until Bailey can barely breathe, cold wall at her back and the overwhelming heat of Francesca in front kissing her brutally.

“Okay,” Bailey gasps, “okay, bedroom.” Francesca stills.

“Okay,” she repeats, soft. She pulls back, leaving Bailey feeling unbalanced. She falters a little, reaching at Bailey like she was about to grab her hand without thinking, but she takes Bailey’s wrist brusquely and leads her to her room.

It’s always a little strange being in someone’s room for a hook-up, such an intimate, private space, but Bailey powers through it and jumps on the bed, bouncing up to the pile of pillows and messy blankets at the top. Francesca’s room is small but surprisingly tidy, her inbuilt wardrobe closed - Bailey’s has clothes spilling out - and posters, memorabilia and photos hung neatly on the wall. It’s only a shared flat, probably a spot they keep for all the rookies, and all the decoration speaks to a certain pride and care that has Bailey watching her move, see how she’s careful to close her blinds, moves seamlessly amongst her own things.

“Well?” she says, and raises her eyebrows to where Francesca’s finally standing at the end of the bed. Francesca frowns.

Bailey rolls her eyes and yanks Francesca onto the bed, rolls them until she’s lying on top of Francesca, not even supporting her weight, just letting Francesca feel the bulk of her.

“Okay?” Bailey asks, and Francesca sneers at the question but says yes anyway.

This close Bailey can see her freckles, dark across her nose, usually hidden against her brown skin. When Bailey pulls back from kissing her, running her tongue across her teeth, the soft flesh of her mouth, Francesca looks like she’s distracted, eyes half-lidded, so Bailey bites her lip - hard. Francesca yelps a laugh and bucks her hips, and Bailey kisses her harshly until she stills, working her hands between them to undo Francesca’s fly and yank at her jeans. Francesca gets the message and pushes at her, but she still chases her with her mouth when Bailey pulls away, like she’s so caught up in it she can’t help follow.

Bailey shoves their jeans and underwear off the end of the bed fully. When she turns Francesca’s laid back on the pillows, propped up lazily, her legs spread and one hand running down her stomach easily. Bailey doesn’t want to get caught ogling, which is the dumbest thought to have for a quick hook-up, but she’s pretty sure if she started exploring the expanse of Francesca, her scars and freckles, the feel of her flesh - she’s pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to hide her affection for it.

Francesca’s eyes on Bailey are bright and keen, tracking her movement, and when she nudges Francesca’s legs apart to kneel there she watches the tense response of her muscles, the ripple of movement as she shifts and breathes. Bailey kisses her gently, holding back and making Francesca lean up frustratedly. She runs a hand over her cunt, dry fingers finding Francesca hot and wet, and Bailey wants to taste her, but wants to feel Francesca gasp against her mouth more, hear the grunt she pushes out from her chest when Bailey gets two fingers in her, slow, teasing, pulling back to slide over her clit and surprise her with a bite to the throat, until she’s whining and digging her nails into Bailey’s back and Bailey has to lean back and fingerfuck her in earnest.

Francesca doesn’t look away, just grinds up against her, staring her down with her teeth out. Bailey has that feeling in her gut, that churning anger under how turned-on she is, and when she shoves Francesca’s shoulder down against the sheets Francesca’s hissed yes seems to go straight to her cunt, making her grunt and shift, press her thumb against Francesca’s clit, wanting her to _feel_ it just a much as Bailey does.

Francesca arches, all tension, close to coming, and she grabs Bailey’s hand off her shoulder and presses it into her throat, and Bailey mutters _holy fuck_ , doesn’t choke her but doesn’t pull back either, just holds tight as she fucks her and feels Francesca’s throat working silently as she comes open-mouthed, no sound besides Bailey’s harsh breathing as Francesca clenches down on her fingers, shuddering. Bailey lets her ride it out until she slumps back, tension gone, finally taking deep heaving breaths.

“Holy shit,” Bailey says again appreciatively, just to reinforce it.

Francesca looks embarrassed, or would if she wasn’t busy still sucking in air and looking kind of shell-shocked. Bailey can read it, though, because she hides her eyes behind her forearm, trying to dislodge Bailey’s hand, but Bailey strokes her throat gently before running it down her chest, over her breasts. Bailey’s hesitant to give out compliments, especially to Francesca, but she can’t help the “God, that was so hot though,” that she mutters.

“Uh,” Francesca gasps out, giving a last jerky twitch, kind of trying to roll away from Bailey, but Bailey doesn’t let her, grabs her shoulder and plants her knees and presses her back into mattress until Francesca breaks into a grin and shoves her back. She twists and bucks and forces Bailey to flop boneless onto the bed, laughing. Francesca rolls over her, hands finding Bailey’s wrists without word. She’s smirking, pressing her tongue into her canines, her hands deliciously strong and heavy on Bailey's wrists.

“Get on with it,” Bailey says, aiming for unaffected, not quite hitting it, wriggling with how beyond insane turned on she is. The smell of Francesca is all around her, all over her hands, her clear floral perfume mixing with the smell of sweat and sex to have Bailey licking at Francesca’s throat nonsensically, like she’ll find the taste there. When Francesca bites her shoulder Bailey only _just_ manages to hold in her yelp, chews on her lip as Francesca kisses her stomach, makes her jolt. She pulls her hands off Bailey’s wrists but Bailey leaves them up there, holds them still, and Francesca runs her hands down her waist, clenches at the flesh of her and has Bailey gasping. Francesca doesn’t look up at her, has no hesitation as she licks at her cunt, two fingers slick and ruthless in her straight away, overwhelming enough to have Bailey jerking her hips up into Francesca’s face. Francesca shoves her hips down and pinches her, all without stopping her relentless pace, and Bailey is so on edge she jerks and kicks Francesca in the back, gasping “ _shit, shit, shit-”_

Francesca pulls off and rests her cheek against her leg. She's all clammy and hot, sticking to Bailey's skin. Bailey stares back, too distracted by the ache of an orgasm so close, and Francesca sucks on her fingers, not breaking eye-contact.

“Shi- Just -”

Francesca must see how on edge Bailey is, how close, her legs shaking and her hands clenched in the sheets, because she fucks her without looking away, watches as Bailey screws up her face and comes, jerking her hips like she can’t decide if she wants to get away from Francesca’s hands or if she wants more of her mouth on her. Francesca makes the decision for her, licks her one last raw and oversensitive time, makes Bailey judder and let out an embarrassing yelp.

Bailey stares at the ceiling and tries to catch her breath. Francesca just sits back on her heels, looking down at her. It makes Bailey feel exposed, which is dumb, considering they’ve just had, like, the best hate sex of Bailey’s life, but she still feels the urge to cover herself.

“Well,” she manages, clears her throat. Mostly she feels like passing out, but she knows protocol, so she rolls towards the edge of the bed.

“Woah-” she says, legs unstable, which is just about the most embarrassing thing that could happen, but when she shoots Francesca a look she’s just sitting back on her heels looking confused.

“Shower?” Bailey prompts, scooping up her clothes. It seems to snap Francesca out of whatever, and she shakes herself a little before pointing.

“Uh- just, down the hall, first on the left.”

Bailey mutters her thanks, makes it quick, can’t really scrub out that well-fucked feeling, but she’s so peaced out she doesn’t really care.

When she comes out Francesca’s standing in the kitchen in her underpants and a ratty shirt. She turns as Bailey shoves her feet into her shoes.

“Uh, you want- Do you want coffee? I have….uh, something,” Francesca says, and Bailey can’t help watching the line of her thighs and ass as she stands on tiptoes. It’s nice of Francesca - strange, but nice - to offer, beyond the usual manners of whatever this fucked up thing is, but Bailey guesses it’s mostly just that - manners.

“I gotta go, i’ll, there’s taxis, right?”

Francesca turns, mouth twisted, but she nods and abandons the kitchen to open the front door for her.

“Well, uh, bye-” she says at the door, and it’s so oddly nervous and awkward, so un-Francesca that Bailey grins. “I’ll see you- around.”

“Our next game isn’t for a while,” Bailey points out, watching Francesca’s face twitch delightfully.

“Right. Um. Goodbye,” she says, and Bailey waves as she steps backwards and closes the door.

 _Weird_. Then again, post-hookup is hardly comfortable at the best of times, so whatever. Bailey isn’t going to obsess. She lets herself out of the building, hails a taxi, and crashes as soon as she gets back to her hotel room, sleeping the sleep of the well fucked.

***

Bailey doesn’t tell anyone but Jacks because she’s not a fucking idiot and isn’t going to open herself up to the sort of ribbing that would cause if the rest of the team found out. She totally owes Jacks that, though, since she disappeared on her, so over breakfast she relays a censored version.

“This is like the stupidest thing you’ve ever done!” Jacks hisses, stabbing at her with her fork.

Bailey sips her coffee, unaffected. “What, and us beating the shit out of each other is a better option?”

“It’s the _only_ option!” Jacks says, sounding kind of hysterical, and Bailey leans closer.

“Hey- just, it was a one time thing, whatever. It’s not like i’m making it a regular part of my schedule, jeez.”

Jacks twists her mouth, still looking unsure. “Just. God, if it goes to shit, urgh-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bailey says. It’s not like there’s a whole lot of emotional involvement on either side, here. She’s pretty sure Francesca was only into it to like, fuck it out of her system or whatever, test Bailey maybe, or maybe just because fighting gets her hot, Bailey doesn’t know. Bailey’s not big on emotional complications. She had fun, came hard, everybody’s satisfied. No biggie.


	2. Chapter 2

Bailey was expecting Francesca to let up, then, now that they’re on an equal footing, almost, or at least have - got that out of the way, or whatever screwed up way that Francesca’s thinking of it. Bailey can’t get inside her head, really, can’t figure out what she wants from Bailey -  but if anything it just ramps up. Francesca’s still talking mad game to the press per usual, but has extended the flirting to there; Sass keeps bringing in quotes and snippets and losing her shit, and Bailey has to laugh it off and avoid Jacks’ looks. Thankfully not everyone’s as horrible as Colorado, but it’s certainly getting to her, the extra material fourth-liners have got now to bait her, niggling at her at face-offs and stoppages until Bailey’s penalty minute average starts climbing and she’s got Amelie and Coach rumbling about staging interventions. Whatever. She’ll. She’ll get a handle on it.

 She’s in Bumfuck, Ohio when some article drops with the title “Bailey Burke - ‘Terrible Beauty’?” it’s not even the first; the original interview was in French, and then a bunch of blogs and hockey writers had picked it up.

 “Duuuuuude,” Sass says, plonking down next to her at breakfast, “‘ _Fighting her is an exquisite joy_ ’? She wants your _dick_.”

 Bailey sculls her coffee and tries not to scream. Great, and today she’s got to play Saskia Smith, who’s had it out for her since day 1. Good to know she’ll have extra chirping material. “She’s gonna be waiting a long time for that one,” and then pulls out her phone to frantically go through her contacts. She doesn’t have any numbers of the Harpies players, but she’s got a PT who was going up to Montreal, so she shoots them a text as she flees Sass.

  _Don’t hav her numb. but have Klein’s, her linem8. Will send in sec._

  _i better get a wedding inv. Bailey_

 Bailey sends back a terse thanks and a line of crying emoji, because she’s really feeling it, and texts Klein. She gets no words, just the number.

 A wall of nerves hit her suddenly, unexpectedly, the fight escaping her. She sits on her little hotel bed, staring out the window at the dreary street, and wonders: Is this a good idea?

 Probably not. She’s walking straight into whatever ambush Francesca has laid, but Bailey’s always been so weak for Francesca, always pushed right back. Francesca had leveled her in their first fight and Bailey still feels it sometimes, overwhelmed. She hits call and holds her breath through the ringtone and doesn’t let herself think about what she wants from Francesca.

 “Dude, what the fuck,” Bailey says, as soon as Francesca says _Hello?_

 “Oh,” Francesca says. She sounds casual, easy. “I got your attention, then.”

 “What the fuck,” Bailey repeats. “Yes, you have my fucking attention, now what do you want?”

 "Well I wanted your number, so I guess I have that now."

 Bailey feels her stomach clench. When she says “How do I make you stop?” it comes out far more pleading and desperate than she intended.

 There’s a long silence and Bailey stares at the carpet, the strange little stain in the corner.

 When Francesca finally speaks it’s soft. “Do you want me to?”

 Bailey holds in the kneejerk _DUH_. Does she? It’s annoying as fuck, and gets her endless ribbing from team-mates, and most importantly has her feeling like her opponents have something on her, like she’s under attack from all sides, from enemies she can’t even identify.  But at the same time  - the thought of not hearing Francesca say her name makes Bailey’s throat close up for some reason, that feeling of panicky tears.

 “I just mean-” Bailey says, trying not to sound too much like she’s backpedalling. “It’s pretty trashy.”

 “That’s your problem with it? It’s trashy?” Francesca asks, and Bailey can hear the edge of a mocking grin in it, rolls her eyes but clings to the familiar ground.

 “It’s unprofessional,” Bailey tries, and Francesca snorts.

 “Yeah, you’re a right model for _professionalism_ ,” she taunts, air quotes practically audible on her sliding Quebecois accent, and Bailey yelps a _hey!_

 Bailey doesn’t know how to explain it, is the thing. She doesn’t know how to tell Francesca that it feels wrong, having this - whatever - out in the open like that, that it feels like showing too much, giving too much to the people around them. Maybe - maybe really Bailey just wants it between them, this- rivalry or whatever.

 “Just,” Bailey says tersely, “pull back, okay. I’ve already got a giant target on my back, you can stop handing people the axe. Your shit-talking is whatever, but at least pretend to have shame.”

 “I have shame,” Francesca says unaffectedly, sounding exactly the opposite. “and what? People are - using it?” she sounds genuinely surprised.

 “Um, duh,” Bailey says. “No one’s threatened to steal your girlfriend Burkey or whatever the hell they come up with?”

 There’s a terse silence. “Well, I guess,” Francesca says, sort of strangled. “People - I guess it’s different.” She sounds like she hadn’t even realised that people treat Bailey and Francesca differently, that Francesca’s a rising star with her own standards, which is hilarious in that sad way that has something hot and hard lodging in Bailey’s gut.

 “Well, just. Your shit-talking is fine, whatever, but cut all that…. other…. stuff out, you’re shooting yourself in the own foot, there.”

 “Shit-talking?” Francesca says.

 It’s easier, somehow, on the phone, without Francesca’s face all up in hers, hot and tense and goading. “You know, disappointed in Burke blah blah blah Not impressive etcetera.”

 “What?” Francesca says, surprised tone only deepening. “All I ever do is talk about how great you are.”

 “Oh.”

 There’s a pregnant pause, as if Francesca’s realised what she’s said, what she's revealed about herself. Bailey holds her breath, heartbeat thudding in her chest, her stomach tight with nerves, like she’s looking down a great height and thinking of leaping off, not sure if she’ll fly.

 “Anyway,” Francesca says, barrelling on through determinately, “I’ll keep that in mind.” She’s got that air of finality, and Bailey just manages another oh? before she’s being hung-up on.

 Bailey stares at her phone. Jeez, what a freak. She should delete the number, probably, but it had been useful, and if she saves it she won’t have to hassle Klein again.

 Bailey catches up with W/NHL news when they’re on the bus, so on the way out of Bumfuck, Ohio, the next day - and yes, Saskia had talked non-stop about how much she wanted to fuck and fuck up Francesca, and Bailey had to gently pound her into the fucking ice to teach her that lesson - she sees Francesca make the highlight reels. It’s a beautiful one-timer from point that hits like a laser and has Bailey sucking in a breath. Sometimes it’s too easy for Bailey to forget this - just how good at hockey Francesca is, skilled and quick and sharp and strong. Bailey has to jump back to rewatch it, rewatch the slow-mos, and as she’s doing so she catches Francesca blowing a kiss upwards, presumably to where she thinks the cameras are, right before she gets thudded into by her linemates.

 Bailey rewinds frantically and rewatches, rewatches, feeling that delicious _maybe? maybe?_ curl up around her throat, the not-quite knowledge that this is for her, probably. _Maybe_. Something about not knowing for certain, about finding it amongst highlight reels like a secret message makes her pulse race, giddy.

 January is a hard slog of road-trips, the midseason grind that has everyone struggling a bit. Bailey would never deny that she loves hockey, breathes and bleeds it, but it’s now that it becomes more obviously her job. Everyone’s tired, worn with niggling injuries and the novelty of hotels fading. Lisa is still out with her concussion, on the mend but taking recovery slow, and it has everyone down, casts a pall over the locker-room. Bailey and Jacks have movie nights, keeps their routine up going through a streak of losses that leaves them snippy and edgy. The moms bring their kids and families down to California, and they all go out and have a mental health day at the zoo with the kids, Doughy and Sass the clear favorites with the older ones, the toddlers charmed by Cortez’s quiet shyness and Bouchard’s French “ _mon cher_!”s and “ _Mon petit bouts de choux!_ Come back!”.  Thereux’s kids are pretty wild, yammering away in French that has Bouchard firing back at them rapid and excited sounding even to Bailey, and Thereux and Marie watch from the sidelines, beaming. It’s the most emotion Bailey’s ever seen from Thereux other than at Wright’s retirement last year.

Viv hands off the new baby to Milanka and Bailey and Jacks do their best to help her out, make her stop looking so terrified that she’s going to break it or something, but mostly Milanka just stares down at the little gurgly face wide-eyed and ignores the animals they walk past.

 The team has rookie days too, gets everyone out after practice to go watch the Celtics, head over to Zoe and Mala’s place for team dinners squished around the dining table and couches.  

It’s good, and they do their best, and the coaches are trying, but - everyone’s feeling the mid-season blues, just a little bit. Even media seems a little lost for content, with an uptick in thinkpieces about the NWHL, most of them inane. There’s one talking about Bailey and Francesca and some of the other more physical players, about their fight rates and penalty minutes. Bailey gives it a skim but catches herself rolling her eyes more than not.

 Her phone buzzes from under her seat and she fishes it out carefully, trying not to wake Jacks where she’s conked out right in her seat.

  _wasn;t me this time_

 Bailey twists her mouth, wonders if Francesca’s being sarcastic or really thinks she needs to assure Bailey.

  _I know. You wouldn’t say this bull_

_:-D :-D :-D_

Bailey has to hide her giggle. For some reason it just seems so absurd; Francesca, of all people, using dweeby emoticons.

_we comi n up thru bostn tmr i will detour,, got my car_

 Bailey raises her eyebrows. She guesses that yeah, possibly, maybe Boston could be on the way from wherever Francesca played, but it still seems pretty excessive to go out of her way. Bailey wasn’t going to turn her down though, she’s not an idiot.

  _here’s my address, txt me when ur nearby_

***

 Francesca texts her from a micky d’s and sends her a photo of a huge pile of nuggets.

 _ok no dinner for you then_ , Bailey texts back, hurriedly tidying, wondering if she should get changed. Whatever, Francesca’s gonna find something to give her shit about anyway, may as well be comfortable.

  _no nuggies for u then ho smh_

 Bailey snorts a laugh. God, what a threat. It’s straight up freaky to bicker with Francesca like this, without the taste of blood and frigid air and split knuckles, but there’s something about this that scares Bailey far worse than squaring up on the ice.

 The doorbell goes a little past four, and Bailey resists the urge to look at herself in the mirror. She’s being weird. She’s not an idiot high schooler with a crush, she barely even cares about Francesca, just has an understanding. A hot understanding. A sexy, sexy understanding.

 Bailey tries not to feel hysterical as she opens the front door.

 “Hi,” Francesca says, barrelling in. It all feels kind of strange, now. Last time it had been easy, in its own way, with both of them so- angry, maybe, or excited, or a mix between the two, trying to prove something that Bailey can’t put into words. Now Bailey’s watching Francesca’s back as she walks down the hall to her lounge-room, shedding her coat. It settles something strange and raw inside her, a feeling of unexpected vulnerability at having Francesca in her space.

 “Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?”

 Francesca shakes her head, plonks herself down on the couch, legs spread and arm along the back.

 “Powerade? Gatorade? Milk? Orange Juice? Vodka?”

 Francesca tilts her head back and stares at her.

 “Whatever,” Bailey mutters, and goes over to straddle her, because fuck it, it’s her house, and Bailey loves an off-balanced Francesca. Francesca stiffens up, staring at her open mouthed, and Bailey can’t help grinning.

 Bailey goes straight for her throat and Francesca freezes, statue still as Bailey bites down gently, not enough to leave a mark. Bailey pulls aside the collar of her shirt, sucks hard and sharp at the swell of her breast, and Francesca jumps. “Ow!”

 Her hands are on Bailey instantly, grabbing her face two-handed and yanking her up and kissing her hard. It’s sloppy, tongue along Bailey’s cheek and lips, and Bailey’s distracted enough that when Francesca wriggles up and pushes at her sideways she goes easily, landing with an oof on the couch.

 “Got ya,” Francesca says, forearm laid across Bailey’s chest, and there’s a hot, hard weight settling in her, Francesca looking down at her, holding her down, real weight in it, grinning.

 “C’mon, let me up,” Bailey says gruffly, but Francesca just keeps smiling, looking way too pleased with herself.

 “Only if you say the magic word,” she says, mocking, face all close and sharp.

 Bailey only just resists the urge to spit in her face, bares her teeth and snaps instead.

 Francesca laughs and sits back. “Close enough. C’mon, show me to your _boudoir,_ you romantic.” She says it real french style, suddenly haughty Quebecois all over.

 Bailey rolls her eyes and yanks at Francesca’s jean loops as she stands up. Francesca’s grinning, half-laughing, muttering something disparaging in French, and she shoves Bailey towards the hall before jumping on her back.

 “Fucking Christ,” Bailey gasps, grabbing her and teetering. Francesca’s hot and heavy against her back, breath warm against her throat, and when she whispers c’mon Bailey gives a full body shudder.

 “Giddyup,” Francesca says, and Bailey thumps her into the wall just to be mean, swallowing when Francesca tightens her grip on Bailey’s shoulders. She manages to maneuver them past the door and into the bedroom, kicking a shirt out of the way carefully before dumping Francesca unceremoniously on the bed.

 Francesca bounces, giggling, and leans up on her elbows to grin at Bailey. Something about the sight of her splayed out on Bailey’s bed all happy and ruffled has Bailey freezing, stuck.

 Francesca raises her eyebrows at her and kicks her pants off.

 Bailey bites her lip and crawls up her, kisses her hard and gets a hand on her fast, has her gasping up into her mouth. Bailey can tell she’s wet already through her underwear, thinks about Francesca driving to her like that, thinking about Bailey, about the last time they fucked, or maybe she was remembering their fights, getting wet to the memories of Bailey’s face and hands close and raw, and Bailey just -

 Bailey wants to keep her here, not let her move, tie her down to Bailey’s bed and fuck her senseless -

 Bailey straddles her thigh, clutching at the back of her neck. Francesca tilts her head back, eyes not leaving hers, her face oddly serious and intense. Bailey grinds up against her, jeans rough on Francesca’s skin, the pressure not enough for Bailey, leaving her aching, but Francesca shifts her hips, grinds up against her thigh in time, breathes in sharply. Bailey keeps it relentless, runs a hand up under her shirt and feels goosebumps chase her. Francesa’s silent, like she’s trying to hold it in, her eyes closed, so Bailey snaps her bra-strap. Her eyes fly open, her whole body going taut with the surprise, and Bailey lets herself smirk a little.

 “C’mon, you can’t just lay there,” Bailey says, flat of her hand at her underwear, blunt, teasing, and Francesca grabs her by the waist and rolls them. Bailey cooperates and then instinctively gets her knee up, fending Francesca off. Her face lights up at the challenge, hair swinging, and then she’s trying to clamber up Bailey. Bailey doesn’t let her, hooks her heels around Francesca’s back and blocks Francesca’s legs from getting over her hips. Bailey pushes at her shoulders and laughs as Francesca nips at her throat, pulls at the collar of her tee with her teeth, growling comically. Bailey lets her guard drop and then suddenly Francesca’s locking up her right leg, pushing up with her shoulder until Bailey’s got her knee coming up at her with her hamstrings and butt singing with the stretch. She slides her leg sideways over Francesca’s head, yelping, and then Francesca’s passed her guard and shimmied around until she can swing her leg over and straddle Bailey’s ribs, easy as.

 “Sorry,” Francesca says breathlessly, pushing her braids out of her face. “Brazilian jiu jitsu.”

 “Yeah?” Bailey says, watching Francesca’s chest heave. She waits until Francesca’s halfway through taking her shirt off to shove at her knees with her elbows the same time as she bucks up, sending Francesca flat down onto Bailey’s chest, her face planted in the pillows. There’s a muffled “hey!” from above Bailey, but she shoves Francesca’s left knee down, hooking her right leg up and over her thigh as she twists her hips to the left, pulling Francesca’s leg under her and rolling them until she can get herself planted on Francesca’s stomach again.

 Francesca finally untangles herself from her shirt. “What the hell, talk about playing dirty,” she says, whipping at Bailey’s stomach with the shirt. Bailey grabs it and grins. “Sorry, done some BJJ training in my time.”

 Francesca rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t try to throw Bailey, just shifts her hips until Bailey gets the message and leans forward, her hands spread across Francesca’s biceps. She noses at Francesca’s jaw, listens to her breathing hitch, but Francesca turns her head and says, “Clothes off.”

 Bailey sits back. “Magic word?”

 Francesca bares her teeth. “Now?”

 Bailey snorts. Good enough. She throws off her tee, gets rid of her bra while Francesca undoes her jeans for her. Bailey leans up on her knees to shove her jeans down, and she’s expecting Francesca to roll them to pull her jeans off, but instead she just angles her hand into Bailey’s underwear, pressing into her, fingers a cold shock that has Bailey slumping forward with a juddered out “God-” muffled into the junction of Francesca’s neck and shoulder. Bailey’s jeans aren’t exactly loose, but Francesca works with it, lets Bailey fuck down onto her hand, tangles her other hand in the hair at the base of Baileys skull, holds her tight and close.

 Bailey doesn’t think, just mouths at Francesca’s skin, chasing her orgasm, until Francesca’s rolling them suddenly, Bailey flat on her back and gasping as Francesca pulls her jeans and underwear off. She hauls Bailey up by the hair at the back of her neck, has Bailey groaning at the pull, until they’re kissing again, too sloppy, Francesca lifting her leg up and sliding her own knee under to fit them together, slick right against Bailey’s cunt, and she flops backwards awkwardly, only caught by Francesca’s hand at the back of her head.

 “Oh my god,” she says, and Francesca opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, but she just rides Bailey until she can't hold her up any more and dumps her on her back, and Bailey grabs the sheets and holds on.

***

Bailey doesn’t tell Jacks this time. One, what Jacks doesn’t know won’t hurt her, and Two, it certainly won’t be happening again, because Bailey had found herself on the verge of saying stay, had been unable to resist pushing Francesca down the couch even when she was saying “I really should go,” had eaten her out until she’d came biting her own hands, nearly sliding right off onto the floor. Something about it made Bailey go crazy, seeing Francesca come undone so easily in Bailey’s space. Francesca looked so confused and blissed out on her way out Bailey had made her promise to text when she finally made it home.

 Francesca does text her later, a _home safe_ around midnight followed five minutes later - as if she’d deliberated on it - with a _good night xoxo_  and Bailey sends back a _bonne nuit_ without even thinking. Stupid. _Stupid_. It was so dumb of her to get attached, to want more from Francesca, to feel so possessive, like if she marked her up and fucked her hard Francesca would magically be hers. Nothing about Francesca is the tie-down sort.

 Bailey feels exposed, like Francesca can _tell_ , and she knows its dumb but it feels like it’s giving something up, like she’s bared something soft and vulnerable. So - yeah. Bailey’s nipping that one in the bud.

***

Bailey ignores Francesca’s next three texts over the last days of January. She feels horrible, but Bailey’s actually, like, busy, with Jacks’ and Smithy’s combined birthday party to organise and with All-Star weekend just around the corner. For some reason she’s chosen to go with Amelie. It leaves her embarrassed, the higher scorers and better players on the team getting passed over for her. But Bailey knows how it works: she’s a good gossip or opinion piece, comfortable around the camera in a way most of her team-mates aren’t, and she’s got enough rivalries to keep commentary giggling the whole weekend.

 Their last game before the break is against Chicago Eagles who’ve beaten them every time this season. It’s not as if Amazons are doing bad in the rankings, already got murmurs about their post-season hopes, but Eagles have a bunch of fresh imports signed to insane contracts, and it’s hard to feel bad about getting their asses handed to them by such an overpowering team (especially one with such looming cap issues). Petra starts in goal and pushes the workout to the max, her gymnastic style hard to look away from, and when she makes a ridiculous save with the toe of her pads even the Eagles crowd cheers. Everyone’s a little too relaxed, really, and the score’s a ridiculous 5-3 by the start of the third period. Coach doesn’t even pull Petra when she asks, just says a terse “Today is Hubert’s day off, Bouchard,” and a more gentle, “You’re doing good, Petra. You survive the Eagles, you survive anything, _non_?” and Petra nods far more confidently.

 Eagles defense aren’t fantastic with so much forward-loading, but they don’t have to be with how good their offense is. One of their bottom pairs skates the puck out of the zone fast, but her head’s down looking for her forwards, and it’s almost too easy for Bailey to line her up for the hipcheck and send her sprawling.

 “Oh wow,” she says, all muffled and spitty. Her team-mates are already coming at Bailey where she’s back-pedalling quick, but she still catches the “not sure I like that as much from the other side,” from the prone defensewoman.

 Once the refs sort them all out there’s no penalties, which Eagles aren’t happy about. Bailey gets boarded hard her next shift, barely has a moment on the ice to check herself over - head, shoulders, wrists, hips, knees, ankles -  before she’s rolling and grabbing at the fleeing skates, scrambling to get up and haul the forward up by the back of her jersey. The adrenalin thud-thud-thuds through her blood, slows the moment down, and Bailey has a blurry freezeframe of fist before she’s jerking back, catching them on the follow through with their jaw unprotected, sending them to ice.

 She skates herself to the penalty box and checks herself over again, more thorough. She’s buzzing, nausea building now the moment’s passed, but she feels - okay, just worn thin, the crowd of boos overwhelming behind her. She watches as Sass takes a wicked shot to the thigh and manages to kill off the penalty, forever grateful for rookie enthusiasm.

 When she comes out again she can’t even make it to the bench before they’re on her again. It’s the same forward, bruise already blooming across her jaw.

 “One for the road, eh?” she says, face twisting up into a smirk as she drops her gloves and helmet and pulls up her fists, and - Bailey really wishes she could just keep skating. She knows though that this is her responsibility, that she’s got a job, so she drops her gloves and locks up with her, faces close.

 “I see why she does it,” the forward - fuck, Bailey never learns their damn names until after, fucking rookies - spits, grinning, eyes shining, and Bailey realises with a jolt that she’s talking about Francesca, that she’s _checking out_ Bailey. Chatting her up, chirping her, whatever. Bailey snarls and lets go of the collar to punch overarm, avoid her defense, and they spin until the forward loses her balance, clutching the front of Bailey’s jersey as she goes down. Bailey shakes her off.

 “Thanks,” she says, smiling up at Bailey with blood in her teeth, and Bailey swallows down the sick feeling, skates off and tries not to feel the shake in her limbs. 

***

 They actually manage to fly up to Toronto with plenty of time to settle in. Pretty much everyone’s got their own room at the official hotel, a huge plush queen bed that Amelie watches Bailey leap on with long-suffering amusement. Amelie sends the video to the secret Amazons facebook group, and then the official one too, just for kicks.

 The draft isn’t until after dinner, so her and Amelie go out nearby, this fancy place that Amelie saw on instagram. Bailey manages not to rib her too hard for it. The staff are super cool with all the questions Amelie peppers them with and their special requests, and Bailey's steak comes out perfectly rare, so Bailey chalks it up as a win and takes a bunch of servings of their meatball and spaghetti all athlete-portioned and packaged up to last her the weekend.

 When they make it to the hall for the draft Bailey’s all loose, kind of tipsy and warm from the wine, and she doesn’t even think when she’s pointed by an usher towards an empty couch.

 Bailey’s checking her phone when someone stops in front of her. She looks up into Francesca’s face. One of the bad ones. Bailey realises with a jolt that she hasn't seen that expression in a pretty long while - has been thinking about her, sure, but hasn’t talked to her since all the way back at the beginning of January.

 “Oh, you’re here-” Francesca says, frowning, and Bailey raises her eyebrows.

 “The tone of surprise is flattering,” Bailey replies, checks her phone and looks around for Amelie; she’s taking forever in the bathroom.

 “I -” When Bailey looks at Francesca again she’s swallowing nervously, chewing a lip, and it’s so different to how she looks on the ice and in the media that Bailey shifts forward without thinking.

 “Are you like, okay?”

 Francesca screws up her face. “What do _you_ care?”

 “Woah, woah,” Bailey says, holding up her hands against the unexpected venom Francesca’s throwing off. It’s not like they’ve got a reputation for friendliness, but still, Bailey thought they were like - maybe - whatever. Clearly it didn’t apply in the light of day.  

 Francesca clenches her jaw. "you're not my- not my friend,” she says, cold, "just because you're an easy fuck."

 Bailey stands up to stop herself from slapping her.

 “Tell me how you really feel,” Bailey says, forcing cheer, humour, even though she feels the opposite from laughter, wants to yank her hair, haul her off the couch and slug her.

 Francesca’s already looking like she regrets it, but she’s got her chin stuck out, her eyebrows drawn, and Bailey doesn’t have the patience for the fucking dramatics. She walks off. This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to get too close, why she had pulled away, because Francesca could hurt her so easily. Bailey has nothing on her, but Francesca's always waiting, ready to stick the knife in.

 Fuck Francesca and whoever shat in her cereal this morning, jesus fucking christ.

 Bailey can’t even complain to anyone, since it would require too much context, and Jacks would say “I told you so,” and make Bailey like, improve as a person, so fuck that. She’s buzzed on the free champagne when they finally call her for the draft, and she goes on stage with it, fuck it, she’s meant to be a character anyway, the dumb goon, whatever, Bailey doesn’t care. She toasts her team captain with it, and everyone laughs, so one for her and none for Francesca, since she’d just shaken hands like a boring asshole. She’d gone earlier - to the other team, obviously, since there was no point in having two of their style taking up space. Bailey wonders idly if they’ll ever manage to be on the same damn side of things.

 Amelie's too professional to ream her out in public, but in the corridor on the way to the afterparty reception she pulls Bailey aside.

 “Are you- Bailey are you drunk?”

 Bailey considers lying, but Amelie’s got her concern face on, not even her Head Bitch face, so she just nods. Amelie sighs.

 “Fruit juice or lemonade from now on, yeah?” she says, warm hand sliding down to link with her arm, and Bailey’s struck with a rush of affection for Amelie, always so careful, so gentle, so strong for her teammates, and Bailey sighs, because she’s clearly drunker than she thought.

 Bailey sticks around Amelie for a while, lets herself sober up and sucks down what must be a gallon of orange juice until she’s convinced she’s not going to embarrass herself in public. Francesca’s somewhere nearby probably, hanging out with rookies or something, whatever rookies do at this thing. It doesn’t concern Bailey anyway. She’s got press to schmooze, helped along by how tipsy they all are now, and team-mates to befriend, even though she knows pretty much everyone already.

 She’s being introduced to some Swedish imports, new this season, when one of them shouts, “OH, _you_ Burkey!” and then dissolves into giggles and incomprehensible Swedish with her friend.

 “Yes,” Bailey says, because, well, yeah, she is Burkey, and this seems to crack them up even more.  The go-between, Kelly, just shrugs helplessly.

 “We talk to- ummmm,” they search the crowd and then point to a woman that Bailey recognises as a Harpies defense. “She tell us aaaall about you and Francesca.”

 Bailey shifts uncertainly, worry settling in her stomach. “Aaaaall?”

 Kelly gives an “Uh,” having the decency to look embarrassed. “Well, you have to admit, you guys are very- um. Interesting? There’s - some, um, jokes - jokes that you’re secretly dating, you know.” Kelly’s brick red by this point, pleading like she’s desperate for Bailey to understand. she makes little quote fingers and says “You guys working out your ‘frustration’, you know?”

 “Francesca like punching you very very much,” the first girl, Helene, says, wiggling her eyebrows. “ _Very_ much.”

 Bailey snorts. “Sure, I love dating people who like beating my ass,” she says, and this sets the Swedes off again, enough that Bailey can make fun of them for it and they can thankfully switch the topic.

 Bailey can’t stop thinking about it, Francesca liking her like that. She thinks about Francesca the last time they’d screwed around, strange and quiet, so intense, so focused on Bailey that it left her feeling rubbed raw and unbalanced. Francesca, earlier, ruthless and bitter.

 They clearly had it all wrong, anyway. The rumour mill had generated enough bullshit in Bailey's experience for her not to bother trusting this.

 She’s on her way up to her room when a pair of rookies on her team stumble in with suspicious looking plastic bags, giggling and flushed. They shush each other as soon as they see Bailey, nodding and murmuring “Burke,” as if she’s like - someone important, someone they need to impress. It makes her grin and nudge them.

 “Good night so far?”

 They smile up at her, exchanging looks. “You should come with us, we’re all going to Marit’s for team bonding.”

 Bailey raises her eyebrows; Shona isn’t really known for having a lot of patience with rookies, but whatever.

 When they get to the room one of the girls, Jen, stumbles on the way through the door and grabs onto Bailey. “Ooops,” she giggles, not letting go of her arm, leaning in closer, and Bailey almost rolls her eyes. She’s in the process of disentangling herself and trying to foist Jen off onto Therese when suddenly Francesca is _right there_ , tightlipped and furious looking.

 “Heyyyyyy Francesca,” Jen says, barely looking at her as she turns back to Bailey. “See you tomorrow, Bailey,” and Bailey can _tell_ this is why she got invited in the first place, for this strange little prank. Francesca apparently can’t tell, because she’s hauling Bailey out by her arm, assuming the rest of Bailey will follow.

 Bailey’s pretty invested in keeping her limbs so she stumbles along, rights herself and shakes Francesca off in the hallway.

 “What was that?” Francesca spits, too loud, too emotional, the most Bailey’s ever heard from her, obviously drunk.

 “Jen’s just stirring shit,” Bailey says calmly, standing her ground in the middle of the hall even though Francesca’s shifting like a caged animal.

 She wants to interrogate Francesca, push her down and get her to spit out whatever storm of stupid thoughts is in her head, but Francesca doesn’t let her, just grabs her arm again and pulls her to the elevator. Francesca hits the button for her floor, doesn’t let go of Bailey, breathing hard like she’s just been bag-skated. Bailey leans over deliberately and presses the button for her own floor.

 “I don’t have a roommate,” Bailey says off-handedly, and Francesca is so easy to read like this, the way her jaw clenches with resolve.

 Bailey hasn’t even got the lights on before Francesca’s yanking at her jeans, kissing her hard, bitter, and Bailey kisses her back for a stuck moment before she grabs her hands and pushes her off.

 “Hey - can you -”

 Francesca screws up her face, half-snarl, and talks right over her, “Oh, what, now you’re too good for me?”

 Bailey steps back and resists the urge to deck her, the rage bubbling around her lungs, feeling the sting as well as if Francesca had slapped her.

 “I have no idea what the fuck is wrong with you,” Bailey says, trying to keep eye-contact, even though Francesca won’t stop shifting, “but at least keep it for private, jesus christ. You know they’re all the worst gossips in the world, and you were gonna start shit down there?”

 Francesca stares at her, chewing her lip, breathing heavily. “I don’t care. I don’t care what people say, I-”

 “Well I do!” Bailey says, surprising even herself, and Francesca jumps back a little. Bailey feels awful, like the situation’s run away from her, and she’s just clutching at air.

 She realises with a sudden, awful, jolt that Francesca’s tearing up, eyes shiny in the dark gloom of the room, and Francesca heaves a huge breath before she talks. Her voice is almost steady. “I don’t know why I ever looked up to you,” she says quietly, and then she’s scrubbing at her eyes, turning and slamming out of the room, and Bailey stands there, lost.

***

Bailey wakes up the next day bright and early, hits her alarm and rolls over, groaning. She feels all sick in her stomach, not sure why until she remembers last night, Francesca yelling, and then later. She buries herself under the blankets and sighs. Not much to be done now.

 She bundles herself up to leave the hotel, has a sudden ache for Denver in summer, hiking with Mark and Mom to their favorite waterfall. She swallows it down and braves outside, stomps life into herself and buys herself a smoothie down the road to last her until she gets back to her leftover pasta. She doesn’t really feel up to the hotel buffet and seeing everyone else.

 The thing is - Francesca was _upset_.  She was being a royal bitch, sure, but Bailey wasn’t born yesterday. She’s seen Francesca in a lot of different moods before, most of the angry or turned-on or some combination of the two, but she’s never seen her  - so at loss like that. It makes a sick guilt ooze through Bailey’s gut; the thought of Francesca texting her and not getting any replies after that  - the last one. Bailey had just assumed she’d, you know, laugh it off, was just making fun at Bailey anyway, but - obviously not. Bailey had never thought of Francesca as someone to get attached, as someone who could be hurt by something so simple as forced distance; she seemed like someone who would always burn brightly, chewing through anything in her path. Bailey realises - too late - that Francesca, in a lot of ways, was making herself vulnerable too, but Bailey had been so caught up in her own shit she hadn’t even realised.

 Everything just feels - so scary. Bailey doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to pick at the issue, and she really should address this - thing, but the game is in a couple of hours, so she grabs her stuff and heads down to the scheduled practice.

 The game is - not awful. Bailey’s had enough years of drama and bullshit to know how to compartmentalise, but it’s hard playing a casual, fun exhibition game and seeing Francesca out of the corner of her eye, tense and stony-faced. Bailey realises with a strange, slow sadness that she can read Francesca a whole lot better, can tell under the poker-face that she’s panicking and angry about - who knows what. Bailey existing, probably.

 Bailey’s team is up 4-2 by mid-game, laughing with her linemates, and the other team’s cracking jokes at them on the ice, ribbing their usual team-mates turned opposition, but when Bailey’s on the ice at the same time as Francesca she won’t even make eye contact, just wheels up for the face-off, head down, and wins it. Francesca’s winger pulls a face at Bailey and shrugs, a clear _Yeah, we don’t know either._

 Bailey can’t find her after the game, or at the skills session, or the next day during the appearances, either. It’s like she’s dropped off the face of the earth. Bailey has to keep reminding herself that Francesca’s her own person, that Bailey doesn’t mean anything to her, that Bailey shouldn’t _care_ , but she does, and she goes home from the weekend confused and anxious and angry, angry at whatever horrible mood Francesca had been in, when Bailey had tried to hard to keep it uncomplicated between them, unsullied with her stupid propensity to get attached.

***

When she gets back she harrasses Jacks until she lets her come over to mope. Bailey flops onto the couch and snuggles up with her favorite rug. She picks at a loose thread as she opens with, “Okay, so I think I fucked up.”

 Jacks rolls her eyes over the banana she’s eating on the opposite chair. “Yeah?” she says, mouth full and nonchalant like it’s expected from Bailey.

 “Uh, Francesca-”

 “Urgh, Bai _ley_! I said things would-”

 “What!” Bailey yelps, feeling oddly attacked, guilt bubbling high. “I didn’t- I don’t-” she halts, frustrated. “I don’t know why she’s so angry, it’s not like I- I’m trying to be normal about this.”

 “About what?” Jacks says. “Nothing about you two is normal, sorry to say.”

 Bailey twists her mouth. “I didn’t - I didn’t want her to think I was coming on too strong, but then she got all weird and angry at me for no reason, and-”

 Jacks groans. “Bailey, come on!”

 “What! She’s always going on about how much she doesn’t like me, what am I meant to think?”

 Jacks leans forward. “She’s a rookie, Bailey. A pretty dumb one, sometimes, and she’s - she’s new. You’re literally all she talks about, and you think she wants distance?”

 Bailey sinks down in the couch. “I think she doesn’t want to put up with me unless we’re fucking, yeah.”

 “Stop being deliberately stupid,” Jacks snaps. “Since day one she’s been chasing after you, asking for you to care. Don’t fuck her around.”

 Bailey swallows. Tries to breathe right.

 “Just,” Jacks says, far more gentle. “think about what you want. And think about what she wants, honestly. Behind all the weird bullshit she pulls that seems to pass for flirting between you two, for whatever reason. There’s no point in lying about this stuff.”

 “You mean, like, talk like adults?” Bailey says, kind of dry.

 Jacks laughs. “Yeah, hun. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” she promises, and Bailey says the requisite thank yous and I’m sorrys and then they can thankfully move on and go back to watching catching up on Jacks’ weird autosports reality show that she’s DVR’d like, four seasons of.

 ***

 They’ve only got one more game against Harpies. Bailey doesn’t have it circled on her calendar or anything, but she…. keeps track. Amazons are doing pretty well this season off the back of a strong season last year, but they’re struggling with a pretty low points average, even if they’re second in the division. The win would be a nice bit of breathing room, but Bailey can’t help but obsess over it for other reasons. It’s pretty much her last chance before playoffs to see Francesca. She’d tried texting her, called her twice and rung out and then hung up and swallowed back the nausea. So Francesca wasn’t keen on talking right now. Cool.

 It’s on home ice, which Bailey’s immediately thankful as soon as she sees Francesca; she’s usually pretty composed, but the sight of her hits her somewhere deep, somewhere that has her feeling like she’d shatter with one tap. Bailey sits in her favorite spot on the bench, bumps shoulders with Thereux and Doughy, focuses on breathing.

 Francesca is a black hole, blank-faced and terrible, checking hard and fast and playing brutal top minutes, until she checks Agnes right into the boards on a forecheck and has the whole Amazons bench up and shouting. Tully is in her face instantly, yelling, but Francesca just turns away, silent. Tully shoots a look at Bailey.

 Bailey ignores it. Ignores Francesca. She’s got to wait this out, pick the right time. She concentrates on the play, gets lost in the adrenalin and rhythm of it, feels the click as they find their zone. Milanka crashes the net with two minutes to go in the first period, deadlocked at zero, and then she’s shovelling in the puck right at the crease. It’s a messy thing, but a goal nonetheless, and it feels like a playoff goal, the way that the crowd and bench reacts. Milanka gets mashed by the Canadian Sandwich and looks like she’s about to pass out with glee.

 They go into second up one and ready for the blow-out, but Harpies are having none of it; within the first ten minutes they’ve had three penalties, Francesca yet again and two of their fourth-liners for late checks and hooking. How everyone’s managed to avoid a fight so far is beyond Bailey, but it’s like everyone’s holding their breath. Bailey feels like she’s orbiting Francesca, getting pulled closer, closer, the inevitable impact looming.

 They manage to hold the score, a grinding, hard game that’s probably not that exciting for the crowd but is a hell of a trip for the players, waiting, waiting, ready for that perfect moment to score, and then right before the end of second Harpies nail it, two quick shots allowed by Bouchard that has her swearing and looking to Hoobs. Hoobs shakes her head; Bouchard’s gotta ride this one out.

 Going into third is - intense. Bailey immediately finds Francesca on the ice, pulled like a magnet, and when Thereux and Doughy race up to the net Francesca’s suddenly in her face, checking her hard to the ice, throwing her gloves and helmet down. It’s a nasty move, a major for sure, but Bailey just drops her gear and scrambles up, her heartbeat thundering in her ears, making it hard to swallow.

“You ready?” Bailey asks, fists up and reaching, but Francesca says nothing, just punches out hard and fast as she grabs Bailey’s jersey and hauls her off balance. The impact rocks her, has her head thudding hard and sick, but she barely even feels the pain, adrenalin too strong and dizzying. Bailey goes with it when she falls forward, grabs Francesca’s jersey and shoves as she levers herself backwards, tries to get herself the space she needs to use her reach advantage, but Francesca’s relentless, doesn’t give her time to breathe, just belts her hard in the mouth, and Bailey feels her lip split, blood slick and hot in her mouth, the smell going right to her stomach, and Bailey gets out solid punch to the jaw in that has Francesca reeling, but the refs are on them as soon as Francesca lurches back.

Bailey sits in the locker room and waits for her head to stop spinning. She’s not afraid of blood, exactly, but the smell of it gives her a headache and makes her nausea worse, so Tim’s throwing millions of paper towels at her and swapping them out as fast as he can. Her lip doesn’t need stitches, thank god, but the inside of her mouth is sore and tender, has her spitting bloody saliva into her hands. Urgh.

 She lost the fight and they lose the game. The locker room is quiet, subdued, but Doughy rubs Bailey’s back until she gives her a reluctant smile.

 “Francesca looked pretty bad,” Doughy whispers. Bailey raises her eyebrows and gestures at her face.

 “She did a pretty good number on me, I dunno if i’d say she’s the one who came out of that looking bad.”

 Doughy scrunches up her face like she’s looking for the right words. Thereux leans across and taps Bailey’s knee. “ _Non_ , not the fight. She was - very affected.”

 Bailey twists her mouth. Thereux’s not one to exaggerate or gossip, especially not one to talk about other people’s feelings. She can only imagine how bad Francesca must’ve looked if Thereux’s describing her as _affected._

 “I should- I mean,” and Bailey stands, wipes her hands on her jeans. Thereux nods at her.

 Bailey doesn’t know where Francesca is by now, puts her money on the parking lot and runs there. She can just see the back of the ponytail of her braids bobbing in the distance.

 “Francesca! Wait!” Bailey winces; shouting pulls at her lip, but when she feels it it’s not bleeding again, thankfully.

 Francesca turns but doesn’t move, just leans against her car and watches as Bailey approaches.

 “I’m -” Bailey doesn’t have a plan. She has no idea what she’s doing, just knows she can’t leave this. She’s got so much to fix, can’t imagine losing Francesca like this, but she has no idea how to-

 “What,” Francesca says mulishly. “What do you want?”

 Bailey tongues the back of her swollen lip. _What does she want?_ She doesn’t know where to start, can’t - she takes a breath. “You - you wanna get dinner?”

 Francesca stares her down. There’s Harpies players lurking in the background, leaning against their cars, and Bailey resists the urge to look at them, knows that’ll start a whole other debacle. She just watches Francesca’s face, shuttered and blank, waiting for the answer.

 “Where?”

 Bailey resists the urge to slump with a sigh of relief. “There’s a restaurant - near mine, I can drive,” she says, and Francesca nods harshly.

 Francesca’s silent in the car. She changes the radio station and Bailey lets her, but she doesn’t fiddle, just stares out the window and stews in the tension. Bailey knows she deserves being frozen out like this, but it’s still making sick panic set into her.

 Bailey isn’t taking them anywhere fancy - just her favorite Thai place down the road - but she feels like she’s taking Francesca somewhere 5 star with how bad her nerves are. When they sit down Francesca crosses her arms and slumps down.

 “So,” Bailey says. “I realise I was kind of an idiot.”

 Francesca flicks her eyes up in surprise but looks away immediately. She rubs at her arm.

 “I’m really sorry,” Bailey says, as genuinely as she knows how, tries to put the confusion and disappointment she’s been feeling for the last couple of weeks into it. “I fucked up, and -”

 Francesca gives her a smile. “I did, too, though,” she says, kind of teasing, and it catches Bailey off-guard.

 “Oh. I mean - Sure,” she says, rolling with it, shooting Francesca a smile so she knows she’s joking. “I think in general we’re pretty good at screwing up.”

 Francesca’s quiet, chewing her lip and staring at the menu. They give their orders and Bailey taps the table.

 “Hey, don’t be rude. This is a date, here,” she says, going out on a limb, hoping, praying a little, wondering if she’s placed her bets right. If this is really what Francesca wants.

 “I- Really?” Francesca says, like it bursts out of her without her thinking, and then she smiles embarrassedly. “I mean - sorry. On my best behaviour from now on,” she says as she folds her hands on the table, the hint of a wicked smile in the corner of her mouth, and it sets something free in Bailey, something she didn’t know was weighing on her, a silent pressure she’d been dealing with.

 When the food arrives Francesca flicks her with her noodles, offers her some beef, and Bailey grins, eats off Francesca’s fork and gives her the curry to try. It’s - strange, kind of, such new ground for them, but it’s oddly calm, too, like the sun coming out in the aftermath of a storm. They stick to neutral topics, talk about Bauer’s new releases, about how god-awful Toronto’s doing this season, talk baseball and the years of softball Francesca had played in the off-season.

 “My arm was too strong,” Francesca says, grinning as she sips her beer. “Every throw to base, it would be way out in the field in a second. And I couldn’t pitch for shit, either.”

 Bailey can’t even imagine it, Francesca being bad at something like that, rolling with it easily and laughing. “We should play, I wanna see this in action,” she teases, and Francesca laughs and rubs a hand down her face. “It’ll be fair, at least, since I never played.”

 “Oh yeah?” Francesca says. “Like we could keep it casual though,” she says, and then realises what she’s said. “Uh-”

 “It’s fine,” Bailey rushes, “it’s true, anyway,” and when they grin at each other it feels like something starting new.

***

They end up the bar down the road, beer to whiskey to shots, her eyes stuck on the curve of Francesca’s cheek, the wet of her mouth after she drinks, the easy strength in the line of her arms. Bailey feels hot all over, slow warmth of the alcohol sliding through her, the thud-ud-ud of the music blunt against her. She keeps catching Francesca looking at her, keeps catching herself watch the swing of Francesca’s hair, idle thoughts about clutching it in her hands, licking Francesca’s throat for tequila shots, tasting liquor on her tongue. Jesus christ, she’s not a goddamn horny freshman.

Bailey checks her phone and swears; it’s past ten, and neither of them are in any shape to drive.

“C’mon, cab,” she whispers into Francesca’s ear, already trying to get her coat on. Francesca doesn’t shift away; she turns and leans closer to talk into Bailey’s throat.

 “Got nowhere to stay- can I -” She looks up to Bailey, flushed and eyes blown, and Bailey stills.

 “We can find you a hotel, if you want -” Bailey starts, doesn’t want Francesca coming with her if she’s her only option, but Francesca shakes her head.

 “I want you,” she says simply, tucking her hands into Bailey’s coat and slipping off her stool, and Bailey’s never been able to resist Francesca.

 They don’t look at each other during the taxi ride. It’s thankfully short, but the tension’s thrumming through Bailey, practically making her salivate, the booze making the excitement full-body and blunt.

 When they get to Bailey’s apartment Francesca stands behind her, mouths at her neck until Bailey’s about to drop her keys, has to lean hard against her door to still everything and get her balance again. She finally gets the door open and then they’re tumbling through, Bailey turning to catch Francesca.

 “Hey,” Francesca says, and the final eye contact hits Bailey like electricity, raw and fuzzy through her until Francesca leans up to kiss her, soft and chapped, her hands heavy on Bailey’s arms. Bailey’s lip is still sore, but the alcohol makes it - not nice, per se, but the bite tingles through her, an edge in the fuzz.

 Bailey can’t help herself, leans forward and deepens the angle, her hands coming over Francesca’s shoulders to hold the back of her neck, and she walks them back until she can lean against the wall and steady herself.

 They stumble to Bailey’s bedroom, flick the lights on, and Francesca’s losing her balance, giggling and flopping back onto the bed with a sigh. Bailey watches Francesca as she strips out of her jacket and kicks off her shoes and pants. Francesca’s just staring at the ceiling, looking thoughtful and drunk, and then she starts making snow-angels, but, like, on the bed. Bailey can’t help the smile that spreads across her face.

 “C’mon, clothes off time,” Bailey says, groaning as she drops to her knees all wobbly to help with Francesca’s boots, and Francesca blinks down at her as she awkwardly pulls her coat off, getting rid of her sweater and shirt while she’s at it. She’s wearing a real nice bra, all white lace, and Bailey groans again before climbing up her.

 Francesca giggles as Bailey presses kisses up her front, squeals as she blows a raspberry on her stomach and mouths at the lace of her bra. Bailey gets distracted, head heavy with booze and lust, watching the shift and pull of muscle as Francesca breathes heavily. Bailey mouths at her ribs, down her stomach, sucks a sharp hickey against her hipbone. Bailey rubs her face against Francesa’s abs, just for the feeling against her drunk-numb face, and she can’t even hold back her sigh. She’s reminded of her purpose when Francesca buries her hands in Bailey’s hair. She doesn’t pull, though - she just strokes it out of her face gently, tucks it behind her ear. When Bailey looks up, Francesca’s peering down at her with a funny half-smile on her face.

 “I promised -” Francesca whispers, “ I- ,” and her voice is cracking, emotion hiding beneath, and Bailey presses her lips to the soft skin of her belly, not sure what she’s reassuring her for exactly. “I shouldn’t - but,” and she hauls Bailey up, “you’re so-”

 Bailey doesn’t find out what she’s so, Francesca’s hands warm and sure crawling up underneath her shirt, everything close and fuzzy and heavy with alcohol, intense, and Bailey kisses her hard, tries to tell her, _stay stay stay_ and sorry all at once, not sure if she’s game for words. Francesca’s never been that chatty when they’re fucking, either times, but now it’s like she can’t hold it in, muttered French pressed against Bailey’s face, her neck, her chest.

 They roll and Francesca sits on her stomach, leans back against her thighs where Bailey’s brought them up instinctively.

 “You know,” she says, hands laid gentle across Bailey’s ribs, fingers running across the edge of her bra, “you’re the first woman i’ve ever slept with.” She maintains eye contact, staring Bailey down, but at the last second her eyes slide away to stare at her hands.

_“What?”_

 Francesca sticks her chin out, that classic move that Bailey’s learnt to recognise. Bailey scrambles upwards, Francesca sliding back, Bailey’s head tilting sickly. Jesus christ, she’s too drunk for this.

 “I’m - I _was_ straight. Maybe,” Francesca says, frowning, like it’s still a puzzle she’s trying to figure out, and Bailey feels the drop in her stomach, a great, terrible fall, “but - Bailey, I.” Francesca swallows.

 “There’s just something about you, you know?” Francesca finishes, half-smiling at Bailey, looking forlorn, and then she’s moving to climb off Bailey, and the drop is still going, a great yawning pit inside Bailey, eating her up, but she scrambles up to grab Francesca and doesn’t let go.

 “I’m so sorry, Francesca, I’m so-” she presses a kiss to the corner of Francesca’s mouth.

 Francesca is still kneeling on the bed -  instead of climbing off she turns to her, kisses her like she can’t help it. Bailey pulls back, lets go, and Francesca suddenly looks so young. Francesca has that neverending supply of bravado in the way she moves, on and off the ice, that utter surety that she’s untouchable, that complete belief in her own invincibility. Bailey should have known - should _know_ better than that, but part of her had believed it too, that Francesca could take whatever Bailey threw at her.

 “No, I - I shouldn’t have - it was stupid of me,” Francesca says, her face screwed up and frustrated.

 Bailey hates that she’s - she’s drunk, yeah, but she’s always bad with words, speaks with her body so much better, but she needs for Francesca to know  - needs Francesca to know that she _cares,_ too much maybe, has pretty much all along.

 “I wouldn’t be here unless I really, really wanted to be, and you’re - you’re-” Bailey starts, but Francesca’s on her, pressing words Bailey can’t understand into her mouth, and Bailey hopes desperately that Francesca can understand some of what Bailey means, even if Bailey can’t put it into words.

 Francesca pulls away, flops on to her stomach and tries to wiggle out of her jeans. Bailey helps her shimmy out of them, and she’s expecting Francesca to roll, but she just slants a look back over her shoulder at Bailey, her arms tucked up close against her sides, hands pillowing her face. Bailey runs her hands up the expanse of her back, the strong landscape of muscle, the bruises and scars, and when Bailey gently pulls her hair out of the way to rest her knuckles on Francesca’s cheek she lets out a shuddery sigh, her eyes closing.

 “Yeah? Bailey murmurs, pulling back and letting her hand fall to Francesca’s ass, and Francesca nods, eyes wide and dark, watching her.

 Bailey runs her hands down her thighs, pushes at her knees until she walks them forward and sticks her ass up. Francesca giggles into her hands, just kinda soft, and Bailey raises her eyebrows before giving her an experimental tap across the cheek.

 Francesca sucks in air. “Yeah,” she says, and watches Bailey’s hand as she slaps her again, harder. The sting hits her hand funny through the fog of alcohol, sharp but fading to a dull throb that matches the rest of her, like her blood’s leaden and weighted with heat. She runs her hands over Francesca’s ass and kneels behind her, leans down to bite gently at the meat of her thigh and ass and hear her gasp, push back against her. When Bailey slides her hand between her thighs and pushes them apart, settles Francesca more solidly, she’s already hot and wet, slick against Bailey’s fingers. It has her feeling gut-punched and off-kilter.

 “Yeah,” Francesca says, hoarse, and Bailey holds onto her waist, twists her hand until she’s fucking Francesca properly, her ass bumping back against Bailey’s hips, hot and delicious, blunt impact hitting Bailey deep inside, and she didn’t even know she could ever feel this turned on, but she swears she could come like this, aching and untouched, scratching her nails down Francesca’s back as she arches, groaning, up on her arms to push back against Bailey’s mouth and fingers, her thighs shaking, until she can’t hold herself up anymore, collapses onto her chest gasping and mouthing blindly at her knuckles, hand on her own clit, and Bailey pulls back, doesn’t let up the relentless pace of her fingers, just plasters herself over Francesca’s back and sucks on her shoulder, bites at her flesh as she comes, shuddering around and under Bailey, gasping “Oh God, oh God,” and then something in French, syllables sliding dirtily across her mouth.

 Francesca drops her hips and Bailey goes to slump sideways, but Francesca reaches back and slaps at her hip, rests her hand there.

 “Wait,” she murmurs, so Bailey does. She shifts a little of her weight, but mostly leaves herself blanketed across Francesca’s back, hot and sticky. Francesca’s eyes are already slipping closed, her breath evening out, and Bailey arranges her hair until it’s not in her face and she can watch the in, out, in, out.

 “Mpnth,” Francesca manages, right when Bailey’s thinking of just conking out. She wiggles until Bailey rolls off, shimmying up to rest up against the pillows.

 “Sorry - I don’t usually pass out -” Francesca mutters, rolling over and rubbing at her face, and Bailey grins.

 “S’ok,” she says loftily, “I know I can be boring sometimes.”

 Francesca’s brows twitch, a hint of a frown, and then she’s kneeling in the v of Bailey’s spread thighs, leaning up to kiss her. Her hand is a welcome shock, has her leaning her head back and groaning, and Francesca leaves her mouth open and hot on her throat as she fucks her, her other hand hard on her thigh, holding her open, holding her down, a solid weight, an anchor for Bailey’s addled brain to cling to, the sucking heat of her mouth at her collarbone, her breasts, the sting of nails along the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. Bailey grabs at Francesca’s neck, pulls her up by the back of her hair, but Francesca shakes her off and bares her throat, head tilted back.

 “C’mon,” Francesca says, jerking her head back again. “I’m not gonna ask twice.”

 Bailey gets her hand around Francesca’s throat and holds on, feels her pulse in the soft, giving flesh under her jaw, and Francesca stares her down open mouthed as she makes her come, spasming hard against Francesca’s hands, pulling her down to kiss, wet hot breath against her face.

 Francesca flops down on top of her and Bailey jerks a little, still sensitive.

 “Wow,” Francesca mutters into the side of Bailey’s neck. “I’m not - I’m not imagining this, right?”

 Bailey laughs, Francesca shaking against her until she says “Stop, stop! No, God. I don’t know how things usually go for you-”

 “Trust me, _not_ this good-”

 They’re giggling into each other’s shoulders, a slow warmth on top of the post-orgasm bliss, and Bailey says, “Christ, I could barely walk after the first time. I thought you’d never stop giving me shit if I let you see.”

 Francesca pulls back and looks down at her, something sad in her expression, but then she twists her face into a smirk. “Can’t keep up, eh?” and Bailey grabs at a pillow to whack her with ineffectually, Francesca rolling and squealing.

 “Truce, truce!” she shouts, still giggling, and Bailey relents, flops to her stomach beside her and lays her arm across Francesca’s middle.

 Francesca clears her throat and Bailey squints up at her. “You know,” she starts, playing with Bailey’s hair, “I don’t just mean the sex, though.” She’s chewing on her lip, looking past Bailey. “Like, I - that’s not all I ever wanted, yeah?”

 Francesca flicks her eyes to her and Bailey gives her something like a smile. “I know. Uh, Now. And - I think - maybe. I don’t know. We’ll figure something out.” Bailey huffs out a frustrated breath, sleepy and still sex-whiskey-punchdrunk. “I want to figure something out,” she adds, chucking Francesca under the chin gently. Francesca grabs her hand and rolls her eyes.

 Bailey snuggles down, puts on a snore. “Get the lights, will ya?” she says muffled into the pillows, already closing her eyes, keeps them closed even when she gets whacked for her efforts.

 “Urgh, fine,” Francesca mutters, and Bailey feels the bed shift and the light go out. “Like I could deny you anything,” Bailey catches, on the edge of hearing as she returns, and it makes her blink her eyes open, watch in the dark as a shadowy Francesca climbs up next to her and arranges the blankets around them to her liking.

***

Bailey wakes up to Francesca beside her shaking her awake, muttering her name. It’s still mostly dark, soft dawn light breaking through the curtains. Bailey groans and rolls away, ignoring the muffled giggle.

 “Of course you hate mornings,” Francesca whispers hoarsely.

 “No,” Bailey mutters from under her pillow, “I just hate you, ugh.”

 The rustling stops and Bailey pulls her head free to look over. Francesca’s looking down, her face frozen.

 “Uh,” Bailey says, wishing she could take it back, reset, start the morning again. “I didn’t mean it? I’m horrible in the morning, ignore me,” and then she groans and sits up.

 Francesca gives a faux-casual shrug. “It’s fine if you do.”

 “Uuuuuuuh, no it’s really not,” Bailey says, frowning. “You think I slept with you because I hate you?”

 Francesca rolls off her stomach and sits up too. “Well then what was it?” She looks genuinely confused, like it hadn’t occurred to her that Bailey would want to sleep with her because she likes her, because she thinks she’s funny and hot and the thing that Bailey can’t figure out, the most infuriating - infuriatingly attractive person she’s met in a fair while.

 “I mean, you’re annoying as fuck,” Bailey allows, “and I still want to belt you round the head a lot of the time. But that’s different from literally actually hating someone. Why do you think I’ve been sleeping with you?”

 Francesca flushes and slants her eyes away.

 “I thought. I- uh. I thought you were just, uh, making fun of me, of my crush, you know, how easy-”

 “How many people sleep with you as a fucking prank?” Bailey half-yelps, and then full yelps, “ _Crush?_ I thought you _hated_ me! Or like, had a repressed hate-boner for me. I dunno. You send a lot of mixed signals.”

 Francesca buries her face in her hands. “I mean, it’s, uh, definitely a hate-boner sometimes,” she mutters into her hands. For an odd moment Bailey wants to laugh at this whole weird situation, but instead she runs her hand up and down Francesca’s shoulder. Francesca looks up. “It’s just _confusing_.” Francesca sighs and pouts frustratedly, looking oddly sweet with her braids all rucked up and falling out of their hair tie.

 “Yeah, I like you too,” Bailey says, twisting her mouth in a half-smile, “I’m not, like, actually a monster,” she says, frustrated and unable to find the words she really wants, trying to be serious, but Francesca laughs anyway.

 “I know,” Francesca sighs, so resigned and genuine that Bailey just sort of sits there in shock.

 “I’m sort of uncomfortable with the amount of emotions in the room right now,” Bailey says, hauling herself out of bed and rummaging for clothes. Francesca gives a gentle huff, a half-laugh, and this whole situation is so strange. Bailey feels overwhelmed.

 “I should leave,” Francesca says reluctantly.  Bailey leans against the doorway and shrugs.

 “I can do breakfast, you know. And I feel like we’re on a roll here,” Bailey points out. Francesca looks away.

 “I’d rather not show my whole hand yet,” she mutters, looking at the carpet, and Bailey gets it; she does - their _whatever_ is so complicated, their fighting making them comrades, and enemies, and people who can’t stay away from each other, and people who can’t stop hurting each other. If Francesca would rather the space right now, that’s fine.

 Francesca goes to the bathroom to get dressed, which is kind of funny, but Bailey knows better than to make fun of her right now. When she comes out she’s wearing  glasses that Bailey’s only seen a couple of times and barely remembers. It makes her look younger, more - normal, vulnerable. She lets out an almighty yawn.

 “I’ll see you later, probably,” she mumbles, already half out the door, and Bailey grabs it to stop her.

 “You want me to drive you to your car?” Bailey asks, feeling desperate for some reason. Francesca waves her off.

 “Got a taxi called. You need to hike to yours, anyway, remember?” and she smiles so Bailey knows she’s just playing around.

 “Well - I mean, enjoy your drive home,” Bailey says lamely, stuck for how to put it into words, and Francesca just watches her face, searching. “If i’m being an asshole, tell me from now on, don’t- Whatever.” Francesca’s eyes crinkle. “Please use your words and tell me about your feelings before you explode,” Bailey adds dryly, but Francesca doesn’t laugh, just gives her a small smile and leans across the divide to squeeze her fingers.

 “Same,” she says evenly, and then she’s gone.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Jacks won’t stop staring her the fuck down as soon as they’re back at practice, and Bailey knows there’s nothing she can do about it, so after practice she pulls Jacks aside and they drive home in terse silence, Bailey refusing to answer any questions until they’re in Jacks’ apartment.

Jacks makes them shakes and lunch, microwaves her leftover chicken while Bailey chops salad for their wraps.

 “So, uh, you were right,” Bailey says, and Jacks grins and steals a stick of carrot. “I can’t believe - I don’t know. If you thought she was into me all along, why didn’t you say anything?”

 Jacks stares at her. “How could you not tell? She slept with you! She never fucking shuts up about you!”

 Bailey waves cucumber around in the air. “I don’t know! I just assumed - that she didn’t. Couldn’t want me, as much as I want her.” She’s quiet for a moment, thinks about that first fight, Francesca barrelling through her without a doubt, a force of nature, her soft hands running over Bailey’s split lip after. “I don’t think I could ever believe she would, you know?”

 Jacks looks at her, face softening. “Oh Burkey-babe, don’t look so down.”

 She backslaps her all bro-y and steals more cucumber. Bailey shoos her hand away.

 “Well, yeah. I’m beginning to realise I was kind of -  an idiot, maybe. Did you know she was flirting with me from the start?”

 Jacks hides her mouth behind her hand. “Oh Jesus, Burkey, you’re doing nothing for a goon’s reputation right now,” and Bailey has to whack her back to seriousness.

 “This is important! How do I - how do I be not weird about this? I’m so stupid, i’m always playing catch-up with this, you know, I just follow, I never-”

 Jacks sssssh-es her and grabs the vegetables to quickly slap them into their wraps. “Bailey, she’s not expecting you to change overnight. She knows you,” and Bailey follows her to the couch.

 “But does she really?” and Bailey knows she’s whining, knows that she’s just being nervous, wants Jacks to have all the answers.

 “Yes,” Jacks says seriously. “She knows most of the important things, anyway, and she’s still decided she wants to follow you to the ends of the earth by the sounds of it, whether it’s to fuck or fight, so you better figure something out.”

 “Oh,” Bailey says.

 “Yeah, oh,” Jacks says, twisting her mouth, and then they eat, and don’t say much at all.

***

 

Francesca doesn’t respond to her first couple of texts, which Bailey figures is fair enough. Breathing room and all that. Bailey’s kind of running on anxiety, playing scrappy and rash, suddenly on a scoring glut, but all sorts of stupid mistakes catching her out too. Her plus minus is all over the place for the next couple of games. Every time they score Bailey can’t help but look skywards for a camera, salutes when she sinks a rare beautiful shot.

 They clinch a playoff spot, only just edging out the Harpies for second in the division behind Philly, and they’re loose for the next couple of games, not lazy, per se, but the buzz of post-season is already humming under everyone’s skin and making them excitable, silly.

 Amelie’s doing all sorts of press, her and Jacks and Tully on breakfast tv showing the hosts how to take a slapshot, talking about how hard the team’s been working, staying humble but not letting the cup out of their sight, and it’s a feedback loop of motivation that has everyone bouncing off the walls.

 After their game against Vancouver a reporter in the crowd that Bailey doesn’t recognise asks her how she’s feeling about going up against the Harpies in the playoffs and - Bailey honestly isn’t sure what comes over her; she’s never really been one for huge inventive moves, tends to stay comfortable and predictable if she can, but instead suddenly she’s running her mouth hardcore about Francesca.

 “So you’re looking to play against her?” the reporter says, looking like he’s smelt blood, everyone else leaning in.

 Bailey can’t help grinning. “I mean- I didn’t used to, but she gets under your skin. She’s amazing to watch. Amazing to play against. She’s magnetic, you know?”

 She pauses, looks at the reporter and waits for his response, watches him scramble as he realises it’s not a rhetorical question, fumble out a - “I guess  - Yes, she’s certainly impressive.”

 “Impressive! Pah,” Bailey snorts, having fun, spotting one of the other reporters out of the corner of her eye with her lips pressed together, holding in a laugh. “Have you played against her? Have you played?”

 “Uh - I mean,” the reporter’s on the back foot, clearly not even thinking, just scrambling under the spotlight, and he mumbles a, “played in college, you know, but - definitely never against Troudeau.”

 “And definitely not against anyone _like_ Francesca either,” Bailey says, satisfied, can feel her team’s eyes on her, knows this is going to cause an almighty shitstorm, doesn’t care, just thinks about Francesca’s tentative smile when Bailey had said she wanted to work out- something. How betrayed she’d looked when Bailey had said she cared what other people thought.

 Bailey’s gotta make it up to her.

 “Playing against Francesca - that stays with you. I’ve got the scars to prove it,” Bailey adds, gesturing at her lip, and everyone laughs, but she powers on, “She’s unique. A one of a kind player. She’s pushed me hard this season, given me something to butt up against, and i’ve been thankful for it. In my own way, I guess.”

 The reporter looks like he’s wrapping up the quote in his head, writing the story already, but Bailey flicks her head and gets his attention again. “Of course, I’m still gonna destroy her in playoffs,” and she flashes a quick grin, and that’s that.

 The teammates that are still around don’t even give her any shit, Sass staring at her in something like shocked admiration, Mala and Zoe exchanging looks, and she’s mostly let her guard down by the time she’s out the exist and trying remember where they’re meant to go to get the bus to the hotel.

 “You’re motherfucking crazy, Bailey Burke!”

 It echoes around the parking lot and makes Bailey jump and drop her phone, and then Jacks chases up to her and punches her all over her shoulders. “You’re nuts!”

 Bailey can’t help the grin, blushing hard. “Uh, thanks.”

 “Coach is gonna rip your head off,” Jacks adds, “so your girl better make it worth your while.”

 Bailey shoves her phone in her bag and digs around for her snack bars. Ignores the funny jolt the words _your girl_ had sent through her.  “Aw, piss off. C’mon, we’re gonna miss the bus, Amelie’s got enough reason to chew me out.”

 “Aye Aye!” and Jacks salutes and skips off ahead, the taste of play-offs clearly giving her that high they’re all chasing down.

***

 

Francesca doesn’t call. Bailey tries not to freak out, tries to resist the urge to lash out or undo it. She’s leaving herself out hanging, vulnerable and bare, but it’s only fair.

 The wait is worth it: four days later the Harpies get wrecked in Philly, ask if it’s going to unbalance them for play-offs. No-one even brings up Bailey, but Francesca goes for it anyway.

 “I’ve always looked up to Burke - uh, Bailey Burke, Boston Amazons - lotta B’s going on -” she pauses for a moment and the reporters laugh, and Bailey can’t help but laugh too, watching on her phone miles away.

 “But yeah, i’ve always looked up to her, she’s such a gritty player, all the usual that gets thrown our way when you play like us,” Francesca gives a tight smile - “but she’s also very balanced, really calm, in a lot of ways. She stays composed on the ice, even during fights - it’s probably hard to see from wherever you guys are sitting, but yeah, I’ve learnt a lot from playing against her. I’ve had to do a lot of adapting. Learnt to respect different things than I used to, maybe.”

 The reporters are on her immediately, asking her all sorts of wild questions, but Francesca’s always played them easily, just gives them some cute little soundbites and shuts herself off, protects herself easily. It’s still kind of breathtaking to see her work the media so well.

 Bailey caves and texts her a _:)))))))_ and gets a _butt up against, eh?_ in reply, rapidfire, and everything feels new and scary and exciting. Bailey takes a deep breath, feels a little like she’s going to throw up, and straps in for the ride anyhow.

***

 

Of course, the first round of playoffs is Amazons vs Harpies. They knew that’s how the seeding would go, but it’s one thing to know it and another to actually see it set in concrete. Francesca sends her a snapchat with an exaggerated frowny face, her glasses slipping down her nose, and then one of her fist.

 Bailey doesn’t rise to the bait, just sends back a pic of her dinner and asks Francesca if she’s eating her greens. She gets an F U back and a picture of more broccoli than Bailey thought even possible in a saucepan steamer. Francesca is so predictable sometimes, jeez. She’s lucky Bailey uses it for good. Mostly.

 Bailey isn’t really a texter, doesn’t have much that she thinks is worth telling Francesca about. Francesca had made her add her on snapchat, though, and that’s easier for Bailey - little snippets of everyday that feel more casual, less important than typing things out. It’s easier to be them and their _whatever_ , like that too; it’s hard enough to gauge how serious their bickering and flirting is in real life, reducing it to text makes it too complicated for Bailey to keep up with. This way she can send Francesca a shot of her protein shake in the morning and say _hey_ , and when Francesca sends back a shot from her bed of her curtains, sunlight creeping through with a simple _ugh_ Bailey has the strange sensation of feeling like she’s in two places at once, here in her kitchen in her ratty pyjamas, and in Montreal, tucked beside Francesca and complaining about her alarm. It’s weird, but… also kind of nice.

 There’s only four days after the end of regular season before playoffs start. Francesca sends Bailey a snap of her suitcase as she’s packing and Bailey sends her the sick bruise she’s getting on her shoulder, urgh. Francesca sends back kisses and then calls her.

 “This is stupid,” Francesca starts with, and Bailey gives a non-committal hm? that makes Francesca let out a huff of indignant air. “It’s unfair that eastern teams gotta get knocked out when west still sucks major ass,” she elaborates.

 Bailey smiles. Francesca gets worked up so easily, gets finickity and snarky, and it sparks something in Bailey, too, that festering feeling she’s been avoiding that _yeah,_ it’s unfair. Whoever wins Western is going to get shredded like wet tissue paper. It really _is_ stupid that Eastern conference has to go through this when they could be kicking ass over on the other coast.

 “That’s hockey, baby,” Bailey mutters, and hears Francesca snort. “Not much we can do about it, is there?”

 Francesca’s silent for a minute. Bailey’s suddenly acutely aware that they haven’t seen each other since their last game, their date, weeks ago. They’ve talked on the phone and stuff, but they’re so busy they haven’t had an opportunity to a) get laid b) go on… well, another date, Bailey guesses, although nothing about Francesca has been traditional anyway.

 “I don’t like that we’re going up against each other first round,” Francesca finally says. Bailey figures that this is what Francesca’s really worried about.

 “You afraid of me?” Bailey says, trying to keep her tone light, sliding back into humour, but Francesca doesn’t say anything for a moment.

 “I mean. A little, yeah,” she finally says, voice small, and Bailey remembers that this is her first year at the big show, her first time in NWHL playoffs.

 No matter how this turns out, either Bailey or Francesca is going to be devastated come the end of first round. It makes Bailey sick to the stomach, crawling nerves that undercut the adrenalin rush of _playoffs, fuck yeah._

 “However it turns out, I’m not gonna hate you,” Bailey says. “I mean, I might be really mad, or you might be really mad, and it’s gonna be pretty awful at some points, but - have fun, yeah?”

 Francesca snorts.

 “I’m serious,” Bailey insists, “you don’t know what it’s like. Have as much fun as you can, and we’ll worry about the amazing make-up rage sex later, okay?”

 “Okay,” Francesca says, and she sounds like she’s rolling her eyes, but also like she’s less liable to freak out and strangle Bailey on the ice for want of a better idea.

 Bailey thinks for a moment. “And no contact during playoffs, yeah? It’ll - it’ll be hard, but it’ll make things easier in a lot of ways.”

 “Aw, what?” Francesca whines. “What’s the point in being in the same city if we can’t even-”

 “After,” Bailey says, tries not to sound desperate, tries not to make it obvious how easy it would be for Francesca to break her on this. “It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

 Francesca breathes across the line. “Okay, fine. I trust you.”

***

 

Harpies get into town two days before the games start. Bailey knows this because a) Coach tells them not to get into any altercations in public, and b) there’s someone sitting in a parked car across the road from her apartment for a solid two hours.

 She goes out at six and knocks at the window. Francesca jumps and stares at her wide-eyed, panicky looking, and then reluctantly buzzes the window down.

 Bailey just leans her hands on her knees and puts her head at eye level. “I guess technically this doesn’t break the no contact during playoffs rule.”

 Francesca doesn’t reply, just looks out the windshield.

 Bailey hums. “I’m making steak for dinner, sorry it’s not fancy. You want?”

 Bailey watches Francesca stare ahead, her jaw working. Bailey steps back and Francesca turns to looks at her, her lips pressed tight together. Bailey shoves her hands in her pockets and tries not to run.

 “Okay,” Francesca says, and climbs out of the car.

 It’s different having Francesca in her space this time. There’s a new understanding - a sort of fragility. Francesca sits at the dining table and flicks through an old book Bailey had lying around while Bailey cooks. She doesn’t talk. Bailey thinks about pushing, about wrangling something out of her, but it’s actually pretty nice to just have her in her space, calmer than Bailey’s ever seen her, even if Bailey can tell she’s humming with anxiety underneath the surface.

 “You gonna tell me what’s up?” Bailey asks as she puts down their meals. Francesca shakes her head.

 “Look, I know I-”

 Francesca gestures at Bailey furiously. “Shh! Shutup!”

 “What?” Bailey jerks back. “I just wanted to make sure, you know-”

 Francesca’s chair scrapes back suddenly as she leans forward. “Shp! no!” She says, grabbing Bailey’s mouth and holding it closed. “You’re going to say something stupid, and i’m going to get angry, and this moment will be ruined.”

 Bailey glares. Francesca just stares back. “You promise not to say anything?”

 Bailey manages to nod. Francesca pulls her hand back quickly, only just fast enough to avoid the teeth.

 Bailey has to admit - okay. She really was probably going to say something stupid, something incendiary that would make Francesca push back, and that works for them, sometimes, but neither of them need it right now. After dinner they watch tv, just some trashy reality show Francesca finds, and they chirp the people but nothing personal, and it’s relaxed, sort of, even if there’s this big undefinable thing looming over them. It’s playoffs, sure, but there’s more to it than that.

 Francesca yawns after the third episode ends and Bailey leans over to check her phone. “Ten o’clock. Time for bed, princess.”

 Francesca looks at her kind of funny, but stands and stretches. Bailey can’t help staring, watching the long, lean line of her, the stretch of skin showing under her shirt. It sends a frisson of want through her, but Bailey’s on her best behaviour, hasn’t made a move all night, has been so good up until now, so she swallows it down and walks Francesca to the door.

 Francesca lingers though, takes forever putting on her shoes and won’t make eye contact.

 Bailey leans against the wall and watches her. “Are you sure you’re okay? Not fighting with your roomie, are you?”

 Francesca glances up and her and sighs. “I just -” she tugs on one of her braids. “I wanted to see you before. You know. Going into battle or whatever.”

 Bailey grins and resists the urge to give her a noogie. “I missed your mean lil’ mug too,” she says, and just can’t help reaching over to chuck Francesca under the chin. Francesca grabs her hand.

 “I better go,” she says, half-smiling, not letting go of Bailey’s hand.

 “Hey,” Bailey says. “Just - I promise, okay? We’ve made it this far, a little playoffs action won’t hurt. We can do this.”

 Francesca swallows and nods. “We can do this,” she says, like it’s a choice she’s made, like she’s put her whole being into the decision, and that’s all it takes for it to be real. Bailey realises with a jolt that for Francesca it probably is. She’s so driven, so strong, that the idea of doubting herself over something she’s set her mind to doesn’t occur to her. It makes Bailey feel a hell of a lot more confident, too.

 Francesca finally lets go of her hand, and Bailey waves at her until the elevator door close.

***

Amazons have come out strongest the whole season, and its nerve-wracking going in with the expectations of last season hanging over them, even with a home ice advantage. Bailey’s always prefered to be an underdog, that hunger powering her, and she’s uneasy as they go through their pre-game talk. They didn’t have more rookies than other teams, as such, but Sass is volatile and both Agnes and Cortez are new to the team, their defensive core resting on Tully and the vets a little too hard, maybe. Not everyone has weathered the Amazons post-season, and Bailey is feeling it, can taste it in the nervousness pulsing through the room.

 Bailey hates that she’s proven right - Amazons can’t get their shit together to save their life, Hoobs crumpling under the pressure like she hasn’t all season, Bouchard pale and silent when Hoobs gets pulled and she skates out to replace her, their weird goalie bond singing with tension. They’re down 3-0 by the end of the first period and Bailey’s pretty sure Sass had a cry in the bathroom when the intermission started.

 Amelie and Coach keep their spirits up, talk about consistency, about playing their own game, and Tully’s talking to her defense ducklings, Jacks moving amongst the forwards, but the game isn’t salvageable. Bouchard puts up a good fight, and Doughy and Amelie get on the board, bless ‘em, but the final score is a 4-2 that sticks in Bailey’s throat.

 Bailey doesn’t see Francesca after. They hadn’t avoided each other on the ice, exactly, but they were so deep in the game - playoffs brain is infamous - that the thought of their rivalry, themselves, really - was obliterated, just bodies pushing as hard as they could to make their team work, to keep the nebulous structure whole, keep it going.

 Bailey moves through cooldown in auto-pilot, the drone of voices not really penetrating, and then she catches a taxi home, not up to driving. She keeps her lights off, just turns her shitty loss playlist - lots of radiohead - on and sinks into the bath in the dark. She waits until the water’s lukewarm and she’s wrinkly and soft, still numb, thoughtless, sick panic echoing around the back of her head, nothing she can allow herself to engage with. She sleeps, and it’s okay.

***

 

Second game goes - better. Harpies are sloppy off the victory, and the nerves have settled for the Amazons, especially for the fresh faces. They manage the win, and the home crowd is absolutely insane, and Bailey and Francesca exchange terse nods at the end. Jacks thumps Bailey on the back in sympathy.

 Travelling to Montreal makes it feel… more real, or something. It feels like Bailey’s life is on the line, and she’s barely exaggerating; her body’s in full on panic mode, hard to manage. Walking down the tunnel to the ice is a slow crescendo of pure noise, hecklers leaning over the rails to shout at them as they make their way to the bench, and Bailey feels like she could skate to the other side in two seconds flat, the wave behind her.

 The game is insane. Everything’s instinct, settling into the routines Coach has drilled into them, gulping down oxygen in between shifts, trying to think think think think and listen to the Assistants, muttering quick words in their ear, but mostly just tracking movement, the ebb and flow of the game more like a tidal wave, or river rapids. Greta gets a goal in minute 11, a heart-in-throat breakaway with Amelie and Jacks streaking up the ice in support, Harpies defense panicking, unable to close off her lanes, committing to the inside and allowing a wicked backhand.

 If they’d thought the game was intense before then, it was nothing to how the Harpies reacted - their first line and top defense are playing insane minutes, too gassed to chirp at the face-offs but so, so effective, shifting the tide until Sass cracks, goes for a risky intercept and opens the space wide-up for the Harpies to net one.

 They go into second tied. Bailey hasn’t looked at Francesca. Can’t bear it. Sits between Thereux and Doughy in the locker room. Thereux is murmuring low words, little things she’s noticed, and Doughy’s leaning across Bailey to nod seriously as Thereux points out that the second defense pair is weak on their left. Bailey tunes it out and just. Breathes. It’s too easy for her to get overwhelmed in moments like this, let her emotions take control, so she lets Thereux’s Quebecois accent lull her until she feels less like she’s liable to throttle someone with adrenalin.

 Second is a gridlock. Coach is always emphasising consistency, working slow and steady, but it’s so, so hard with the crowd funneling down to the ice, like everything’s magnified and unbearable. Thereux’s digging the puck out of the corner with a defense woman at her back, and as she flicks it out she falls after it, all unbalanced, and she’s stuck bent over and scrambling when the Harpies forward coming to pick up the puck flattens her.

 Bailey’s hauling the forward away and tearing at her helmet without thinking, the pain wrenching at her hand snapping her awake, sort of, thundering of her blood in her ears, hauling the player away and down, yelling. Someone pulls her off, holds her arms, and she concentrates on just, breathe in. Breathe out. Thereux still hasn’t got up.

 Bailey shakes off Munira, can see Sass pale and worried beside them, and skates back to Thereux.

 The trainers are getting her up, and Bailey hooks an arm around her, shoos off a sick and panicked Doughy to skate Thereux to the door.

 “It was an accident,” Thereux slurs, and she’s - she’s wobbly, all funny sounding, but she’s skating okay, and Bailey keeps the unsaid prayer running in the back of her mind.

 “You’ll be fine, eh Bessie?” Bailey says quietly, twangy, throat sore like she’s about to cry. Thereux doesn’t turn and look at her, or shake her head. She’s keeping her head still.

 “We’ll win it, okay? Bess -” and then Thereux’s waving over her shoulder at her as Tim and the other trainers get her to the quiet room.

 Bailey pulls herself together. Doesn’t let herself look for the forward, because it was a stupid, stupid play, but everyone makes stupid plays, especially in the playoffs, and Thereux wasn’t out for blood. Now isn’t the time- next season, maybe. Or if they ran into each other in the off season.

 The powerplay is brutal, Amelie like steel, irascible, and it’s like she pushes so hard that a goal is inevitable, everyone eyes on her until suddenly there’s a lane open for Tully and Amelie snaps the pass across for Tully to hit with a one timer. Bailey hears the crack from the bench.

 Amazons shut it down. That’s the priority going into third - no mistakes. No giveaways. They deserve this. It’s deadlocked for a solid ten minutes, the panic beginning to become evident in the way Harpies scramble, give up stupid penalties, and then Bailey gets an insanely lucky goal deep in the third, a shot from blue line that ricochets off a Harpies defense. It’s a death knell, the moment rushing so fast she barely believes it, and there’s a frozen moment when she spins and sees Francesca on the ice. It’s the first time they’ve looked at each other in the face all game. Amazons are already thumping into her, the din of the crowd unbelievable, but Bailey watches Francesca’s face fall, devastation clear, and then turn away.

 

***

Jacks and Bailey are rooming together in the hotel for comfort and company more than money-saving. When Bailey gets out from the bath - what Jacks calls her Playoff Soak - Jacks is lying on her bed and watching her.

 “You okay?”

 It’s Bailey’s instinct to reassure her, a quick yeah and then they can sleep. But Bailey lets herself really think about it. She’s still tense, but the PTs and the bath had helped a lot with that, physically at least. The fatigue of a long season turning to post-season was beginning to set in, leaving her drained, feeling raw and volatile - but. She was holding together, for now.

 Bailey nods. “It’s just - I dunno.”

 Jacks gives her a tight smile. “Francesca didn’t look very happy.”

 Bailey snorts. “She’ll get over it. I’ve done worse.”

 Jacks pats the spot on the bed next to her and Bailey drops onto it with a sigh. “I hope she gets over it,” she finishes, speaks the little fear that sticks in the back of her mind, Francesca really hating her, not wanting to see her again, back to fighting with none of the potential, just hurting to cause pain.

 

***

 

Amazons lose the fourth game. And the fifth. And the six.

 Bailey watches Francesca celebrate and wants to throw up. She gets off the ice as fast as she can. She’s never been caught crying and she’s sure as shit not gonna let today be the first.

 ***

Bailey’s in LA when Harpies get knocked out by Philly. She’d spent three days passed out on Jacks’ couch, solidly Not Moping together and certainly not watching any games, and then Jacks had left for Red Deer and kicked her out. Bailey had tactically retreated - not fled - down to Mark’s.

 Mark had forced her to watch the decider game for Philly and Montreal with an almost too astute sense of tough love, and afterwards Bailey had stared at her phone blankly.

  _I’m sorry,_ she eventually sends. _If it wasn’t us, i wanted you to beat their ass_

Bailey doesn’t get a response  She figures it’s fine; she’s probably the one overstepping their no-contact rule, here, and Bailey knows that Francesca’s got a bit of recovering to do yet. It’s strange, how much she’s missing Francesca. They hadn’t really been able to see much of each other during the season, all things considered, but they were occupying the same space, Francesca always at the back of Bailey’s mind. Now she keeps finding herself drifting off thinking about what Francesca’s doing, or imagining how Francesca would fit into her day here, in her other life. It’s exciting, sort of, but also scary, a dependence Bailey hasn’t felt in a long time.

 Bailey leaves Mark and Julia to their nursery decoration and heads down to LA to stay with Robin, one of her team-mates from college days. Bailey lies on the beach for three days straight and burns so bad Robin’s peeling strips off her back and she’s sleeping with ice packs.

 “I put on sunscreen,” Bailey mumbles through the pain, and Robin pats her as gently as she can.

 “No pain, no gain,” Robin says, which makes no sense, unless she’s talking about Bailey’s gained chance of skin cancer, but whatever.

 Bailey sends Francesca a snap and gets an instant reply of Francesca pointing and laughing, which is fair enough, Bailey guesses, since she’s the pasty idiot who can’t use SPF30 correctly but, like, still. Almost an instant later is a close up of Francesca pouting with the caption _want me to kiss it better_ though, so Bailey feels mollified.

  _YES_ , she sends back, except she’s got her mouth open as wide as she can get it and her tongue stuck out.

  _Disgusting,_ and now there’s a shot of Francesca’s afternoon snack, presumably, muesli and yoghurt and oranges and also a block of chocolate Bailey can see tucked behind the orange. She’s like, 80% sure it’s just bait though, so she leaves it, and sends Francesca a shot of the lunch Robin’s made, a hideously creamy potato bake with lamb skewers that’s certainly gonna help Bailey get her weight back on after the end of season hustle.

 

***

 

Francesca calls the next day when Bailey’s running down Santa Monica beach, hideously early but still cool at least, heat still simmering safely off in the distance.

 “Hey,” Bailey says, and it’s silly - it’s not like they haven’t talked, or anything, but she’s still nervous, throat tight.

 “Hey,” Francesca says back, bored sounding, “so who you training with down there?”

 Bailey blinks. “Uh, you know, Robin put me onto a good trainer, and Amazons PT gave me plenty to work with, so-”

Francesca snorts. “You should come to Quebec,” she says, kind of rushed, “I’ve got a PT and private ice time, and you know I’m the best for-”

 “I missed you too, hun,” Bailey cuts in, and she resists the urge to even make it sarcastic.

 There’s something like a laugh on the other end of the line. “I’m that obvious?”

 Bailey grins and thinks about how long it _hadn’t_ been obvious - and now easy it was to read her now, in comparison. “Sorry, love. Yeah. What you up to?”

 “Just got off the phone to mom. She just got back from Jamaica with Cat-”

 “Cat?” Bailey interrupts, muttering a sorry for being rude, but Francesca waves it off.

 “My little sister Catherine, she’s brutal. I think my grandma was happy to see them leave again.”

 Bailey grins, thinks of her own trips to Nan and Pop’s up in the mountains of Colorado. It’s weird, how all this time Francesca had a sister and Bailey didn’t know about it, but it feels more - important, somehow, like a secret she’s been let in on.

 “Anyway, i’m getting lunch now. Promise there’s veggies and all,” Francesca adds, just to hear Bailey snort. “You?”

 Bailey resists the urge to yawn and stretches out her hamstrings. “Well, I was trying to run, but then my girlfriend-” she pauses. It was stupid, but that’s how she’d started thinking of Francesca in her head, and it had just -

 “Girlfriend?” and there’s something soft in the way Francesca says it, something careful, like she’s ready to suck the words right back in.

 Bailey hadn’t meant to have the conversation like this, but she’s the one who’d fucked up and put it out there, so whatever.

 “I dunno,” Bailey says, not letting the shake come through in her voice, “right now, I think that’s the only option for me. Sorry - I -”

 “Yeah,” Francesca blurts. “I didn’t- I didn’t know how to - or if I - or-”

 Bailey laughs. It’s been - months, now, they’ve been tangled up in this _thing_ , months of thinking only of Francesca. But it’s - they’ve done everything so strange, so backward and sideways, Bailey had worried it would be overstepping, since they haven’t, like, actually had more than one proper date. Francesca’s giggling too, muffled, like she’s trying to be quiet.

 “You know, they’ve - my team’ve been calling you that since like - our second game. Oh, Troudeau, you hear, your girlfriend got a goal. Oh, Troudeau’s girlfriend was in a fight again last night. I didn’t even think it would be chirping material for you, I was so used to it.”

 “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bailey says, hand over her mouth, and she’s trying to not look like a complete loon on the beach, christ. It had been such a - such a big deal in Bailey’s head, the idea of finally putting a name to their thing, of having that - commitment, that solidity. It feels kind of anti-climatic.

 Francesca just goes, “No, I’m not kidding you, _girlfriend_.” Bailey groans.

 “ _Anyway_ ,” Bailey says, changing topic, “Back to what I was saying - my _girlfriend_ called me and started harassing me about my training, so now i’m considering going back to Boston for my usual gym.”

 Francesca makes a thoughtful noise. “Boston is- eh. Actually - I mean, for real, why I was calling -” Bailey hides a smile at the blatant admission - “I got an apartment to myself in Quebec at beginning of summer. I had some friends staying with me, but they’re out of town for the week, and I’ve got a free house, so…..”

 Bailey smiles and runs her tongue against her teeth. “You inviting me up to the Troudeau Lovepad?”

 “Shutup!” she squeals, and then quieter, “If that’s…. okay. I mean. You don’t have to.”

 “I’d love to,” Bailey says, a little too genuine, kind of embarrassing, but it’s exciting, a kind of shameless hum under her skin. “Send me the deets and i’ll tell you my flight, yeah?”

 “Yeah,” Francesca says, kind of unbelieving, giggling, and then, “go finish your run, slacker.”

 “Sure thing, girlfriend,” Bailey kisses at the mic obnoxiously before hanging up on Francesca’s retching noises.

 ***

Quebec is nowhere near as disgustingly hot as L.A, but it’s still stifling, especially since she gets out of the airport right at two, sun hot and lazy as it starts its slow slide to the horizon. Bailey holds the hug a little too long, maybe, breathing in Francesca’s scent, the warmth of her perfume, the clean cotton of her shirt crisp from the air-con. Francesca raises her eyebrows when she pulls back, and Bailey can’t really think of what to say, so she just presses a kiss against her cheekbone.

 Francesca looks like she’s two seconds away from blushing or punching her in embarrassment, so Bailey steps back properly this time and picks up her bag.

 “Gonna show me your town?”

 Francesca grins. “Yeah. C’mon, i’m parked not far away.”

 The drive is long enough for Bailey to start dozing, not awkward silence but still something humming under the surface, Francesca tapping along to whatever french radio she’s programmed in. Bailey doesn’t fiddle, just stares out the window, feeling laggy with the lost hours.

 Francesca parks in what looks like a garage for a nearby old, or, uh, historical looking apartment block, but there’s no elevator or anything. Bailey sweats and carries her suitcase up the stairs into the little apartment, holding her tongue, unsure of how to treat Francesca in this new space.

 Francesca unlocks the door with a set of keys that have a little Harpies keychain on them. Bailey makes a mental note to replace it. “It’s pretty small, but-”

 “It’s adorable,” Bailey says decisively, pushing her way in and finally dumping her bags. Francesca launches into the excitable tour - the lounge area right at the door, the tiny kitchen to the left with its original (hideously orange) cupboards, the balcony right across from the door that continues to the right. There’s a little corridor to the right next to the bookcase that leads to the bedroom, presumably with the balcony, and a bathroom and little study on the other side.

 It’s clear from the way Francesca shows it off that it’s her first place to herself; her pad in Montreal was a roomie spot, and before that she had probably always lived with a billet family or her own parents.

 “You renting?” Bailey asks, following Francesca down the corridor, and Francesca turns to answer.

 “Yeah, just for the summer - but - I’m thinking of buying, maybe, once I re-sign and know my money for sure. Investing and everything, hey,” she says, grinning, but there’s an undertone of seriousness to it, seeking Bailey’s approval.

 Bailey shrugs, gives a “Well I like it, that’s all the professional advice I can give you,” and files it away for a conversation at a later date. It wasn’t as if the NWHL was big money, but it was certainly far more money than the average 20 year old was used to handling. At least she was going for boring shit, like property. God, no way Bailey would’ve thought of that at Francesca’s age if she was staring at the sort of money Francesca’s probably looking at.

 Bailey follows Francesca into the bedroom, leaves her suitcase over near the wardrobe and dumps her handbag on top, kicking off her sandals.

 “Phew,” she breathes, fans herself and the sweat she’d managed after the stairs. It’s strange - but good, so good - to have Francesca to herself in a place like this. In a lot of ways she’s already thinking of it as Francesca’s; her hometown, her trophies and medals next to the TV, her laundry on the lounge they’d walked past. They’ve never had a blank slate like this, though, and the expanse of possibilities has Bailey’s gut fluttering with nerves she barely ever gets.

 She turns around and finds that Francesca’s just watching, staring, grin on her face. She’s standing at the end of the bed - Bailey only has a moment to realise what’s about to happen and assess the space, the wardrobe on her right, the large white bed taking up most of the space, the balcony through french doors behind her, the chest on the wall on the other side of the bed - before Francesca leaps at her.

 “No no nonononoonon-” Bailey starts squealing, knows she wouldn’t get the French doors open fast enough, jumps up on the bed near the head as Francesca rounds the corner, and she leaps down to try for the door but Francesca jumps down first, spins and tackles her onto the soft downy bed, Bailey unable to stop her mad laughter.

 Francesca is lying on top of her, lit bright by the sun that’s coming in through the doors, the room all white and soft. Everything has that summer smell, air warm and fresh, humidity Bailey can almost taste.

 “Gotcha,” Francesca murmurs, making sure she’s got Bailey’s arms held down. Bailey grins up at her.

 “Yeah?” she says, and it comes out hoarse, her stomach giddy with nerves, excitement, something undefinable about the moment too, the unexpected tenderness in how Francesca’s eyes track over her face. “What you gonna do about it?’

 Francesca’s face lights up, and then she’s kissing her, finally, after this long wait, and it’s soft, warm, like Francesca’s testing the waters. She shifts her weight to the side, lets go of Bailey’s arm to rest her hand on her jaw, her palms cool on the heat of Bailey’s neck.

 Bailey follows Francesca’s lead easily, her hands finding the hem of her tee and resting on the warm skin of her back. Bailey already feels sticky and hot, not enough space between them, but it’s intoxicating, makes her sleepy and dazed.

 “Urgh, it’s too hot,” Francesca says, leaning back and wiping at her spit-slick mouth, and Bailey doesn’t take her eyes off her as she strips down to her underwear. She’s got a fancy matching set on, black and plush, and Bailey reaches out to twang the side of the pants.

 “Nice,” she says, smirking, and then sits up to take her shirt off. “For me?”

 Francesca snorts and grabs her by the waistband of her shorts, pulls her down until she’s lying on the rucked up comforter flat on her back with her legs around Francesca’s waist. Francesca gets her fly and yanks her pants off and Bailey gets her legs locked around her waist as soon as she can.

 “Oh- hey, c’mon,” Francesca whines, pushing at her knees, but Bailey just grins and twists until Francesca has to flop sideways. “Hey!”

 Bailey lets her free and clambers over. “Oh, there you are,” she says, looking down in Francesca’s face, grinning. Francesca breaks into a smile. She’s so - so pretty like this, her braids fanned out around her head, skin glowing warm in the afternoon sun, eyes glittery on Bailey’s, her smile wide and soft. Bailey ducks to nip at her lip.

 Francesca buries her hands in Bailey’s hair, licks into her mouth as she tugs at the base of her skull until Bailey grunts and pulls back, out of breath. “Yeah, I get - I get the idea,” she says, and then wiggles backwards.

 She kisses up from Francesca’s knee, over the strong lines of her quads, to the tender skin of her inner thigh. Bailey can smell her, the thick, heady scent in her underwear when she pushes it out of the way to get her mouth on her, hands holding her legs still against the bed. Bailey knows it’s not the angle Francesca likes, knows the underwear are a distraction, but she’s in the mood to draw it out.

 She waits until Francesca’s tugging on her hair again, her legs jerking against Bailey’s grip. She’s bucking up involuntarily, little movements with an echoed grunt or sigh that Bailey catches over the slick sounds of her mouth and Francesca’s cunt. Francesca finally says please, pulls Bailey up and looks her in the face, pleading, eyes wide and blown, mouth bitten and wet, and Bailey pulls off her underwear, hooks her legs up, and fucks her with her fingers, her mouth going numb with the wet heat of her, relentless, until Francesca arcs up and says “Fuck - Bailey -” and comes against her face, juddering.

 They collapse against the bed. Bailey wipes her face against Francesca’s thigh, and then wipes her arm across her mouth. Francesca’s breathing hard, her arms spread wide.

 “I missed you,” Francesca says to the ceiling. “So fucking much. And not just because you can do that, but damn, it-”

 Bailey whacks her on the thigh gently and Francesca shuts her eyes. “Yeah,” she whispers.

 Bailey clambers over her carefully and lays down next to her, not ready for the sticky heat of them pressed together quite yet. She slips her fingers under Francesca’s bra strap. “I missed you too.” There’s a quiet moment, so many unsaid things floating in the air, and then Bailey continues anyway, to hell with it. “It was kinda scary, really.”

 “I - Same, to be honest,” Francesca says, scrubbing at her face. “But -” Francesca leans up and turns to her, smiling.  “I’m glad you’re here,” and her smile is growing, and then she’s pushing at Bailey until she has to roll back to the middle of the bed.

 Francesca’s clearly looking for revenge, because she draws it out horribly, her hands running light and gentle across Bailey’s stomach, her breasts, tracing the line of her throat until Bailey’s shuddering with chills and goosebumps, even in the heat.  

 “Come _on_ , Francesca, just-”

 Francesca pushes her hand against Bailey’s underwear, has her gasping and lifting her hips, but Francesca just pulls back and grins. She pulls Bailey’s underwear off and Bailey wiggles her hips at her like _get on with it._

 “Get on your knees,” Francesca whispers hoarsely, and Bailey sucks in air for a second there, just leans back and- okay.  

 “I- Okay- I,” and as she turns Francesca’s hands are on her ass, Francesca muttering something in French, and Bailey’s leaning up on her hands until Francesca digs her fingers into the meat of her hip and pushes the fingers of her other hand in, crooking them as she digs her nails into Bailey’s ass, and then Bailey says “oh god,” and falls to her elbows.

 “Don’t you fucking dare drag this out, I swear,” Bailey says, muffled into the sheets, and Francesca just runs her nails down Bailey’s back and ass, has her shuddering and clenching around her fingers.

 “Fuck- I-”

 “I got you,” Francesca mutters into Bailey’s back, and then she’s fucking her properly, her other arm around her hips, holding her up as she falls forward, nails on her breasts that make her choke against the sheets, and then Francesca finds her clit, and Bailey practically tries to climb up the wall, spouting nonsensical “Yeah- just- F- don’t stop, just -”

 Bailey’s dimly aware that Francesca’s laughing, but she doesn’t give a shit, because she finds the perfect angle, and Francesca’s always had fucking great hands, and Francesca’s hip is digging into Bailey’s ass beautifully every time she pushes back against her, and when she comes Francesca’s whispering French into the sweat on the back of her neck. She could be reciting her times tables, for all that Bailey cares. It’s hot as _shit._

 Bailey slides to horizontal. “ _God.”_

 “It’s fine, you can just call me Francesca,” she says offhandedly while bouncing down next to her, flinging her arms out.

 Bailey aims an arm haphazardly and hits Francesca in the stomach. “Sh, sleep.”

 They doze like that, sleepy and sated in the fading afternoon sun. Bailey’s fuzzy and half-asleep when Francesca extricates herself, and she falls back asleep when she hears the gentle rhythm of the shower start up.

 Bailey finally rouses herself when Francesca dumps the damp towel on her. She’s naked and rummaging through her dresser for clothes, which is plenty enough to get Bailey vertical and moving towards her, coming up behind her to nose at her neck.

 Francesca shivers but tilts her head back to give Bailey better access. “Go shower, then we can get dinner.”

 “Mm, bossy,” Bailey mutters.  She doesn’t move for a moment, squeezes Francesca in the tightest hug she can manage and lifts her off the ground, just - excited for this, trying to be as close to Francesca as she can, trying to ease some of that need to _have_ her. Francesca wheezes and yelps, but gives her a kiss on the cheek and a slap on the ass on the way out the door for her efforts, so she figures it’s fine.

 ***

The time slides past honey-slow, luxurious and excessive after the rush of the season, but the days still pass too quickly for Bailey’s liking. It’s not like they’re doing much - morning training, ice time with locals, that sort of thing. Otherwise it’s a lot of sex, a lot of tepid showers to cool off, a lot of lying on the bed and reading or watching tv. They take to camping out on the balcony once the sun isn’t hitting the building anymore, enjoying the breeze off the river and eating through whatever fruit they’d lugged from the grocer that morning. They manage to demolish an entire watermelon between themselves before it gets dark, two spoons and radio tinny in the background as they get stickier with watermelon juice and drunker on wine.

 ***

Bailey’s flight leaves horrendously early but Francesca still drives her out to the airport.

 “This was-” Francesca isn’t often stuck for words, buts she’s fiddling with her glasses and chewing on her lip.

 Bailey holds her shoulders and leans forward to kiss her. “Fantastic. The best. Terrible that it’s ending. I’m gonna miss you so much,” she finishes, feeling her throat close up like a fucking weirdo, but Francesa just throws her arms around her shoulders and buries her head in Bailey’s neck.

 When she pulls back she’s sniffing suspiciously. “Call me when you get into Boston. I’m coming down there,” she says insistently, like a warning or a threat, and it hits Bailey right in the heart, all tender and strange.

 “As soon as you can,” she says, grinning kind of watery, and then she’s pressing one last kiss to Francesca’s face and leaving.

It’s stupid of them to be so mopey, Bailey knows, but the last week had been - different. Something new and fragile but something important, too, and it was hard to let it go. It’s mostly a reminder that through the season they won’t be able to see each other all that much, unless they’re super into getting a million miles on their cars, or racking up hideous flight costs. It’s not as if the summer is over yet, though. They’ve got time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thankyou for reading! Any feedback/concrit is really appreciated!!


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